


Another Record of Ragnarok- The End of an Era

by Master_Chopper



Category: Record of Ragnarok (Manga)
Genre: F/M, OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 106,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Master_Chopper/pseuds/Master_Chopper
Summary: To decide the fate of humanity, the gods of each pantheon come together and, unfortunately, their decision is unanimous: to destroy mankind. One voice, however, rises up in opposition, and is that of a mysterious god of whom no one knows anything, but who challenges ten gods to face ten humans before they can accept that cruel fate.Ten human beings from all ages will face ten gods from all cultures: this is Ragnarok.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	1. Rejected Proposal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmiasD](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=AmiasD).



**Chapter 1: Rejected Proposal**  
At the border of time and space, the gods had been summoned to cast their vote on a simple question: "should the human race be extinguished?"

And right when the poll seemed to have reached the irreversible point of no return, a voice had risen from the crowd. It didn't belong to any pantheon, yet it had gathered deities that looked upon him and stood still with immovable confidence. That stranger, apparently, showed his disapproval, but most gods laughed at him.

Everyone, except for some relevant figures. 

Indeed, a woman with a golden dress adorned with feathers asked him: "Only a fool would waste his voice in this situation. Do you have anything else to add?"

And at that point the mysterious god had smiled - or better, grinned - as if he weren't subject to the sacred laws that were in force in that place of universal judgement. He had mentioned that there was neither challenge nor fair justice in that decision.

"What should we do, then?" snickered sardonically a red and deformed creature, of semblance so cruel that it instilled terror in every bystander. "Send the humans a letter to hear about their stance?"

No stance, the stranger had answered: only cowards acted with words, and that was the reason why all the gods gathered there were hiding behind a vote on paper. Immediately billions of furious glances fell on him.

Whilst, he had continued, only strength can try the brave and decide who has the right to act on their own destiny.

Something that roamed among deities as a legend amidst legends: the opportunity for men to challenge god, change their fate and break prophecies, miracles, and any blind faith that would inevitably lead to their downfall. There, in the arena that had been built who knows how long ago for that exact purpose - the Valhalla - the Ragnarok would have taken place. 

The major gods had consented to that challenge with the superiority that indeed is fit for a superior being, but the one who smiled the most was the snake who'd sneaked an insidious worm in the gods' mind: doubt. He was granted permission to challenge ten gods with the ten human beings he believed to be worthy. The condition satisfied him, so he vanished along with his nameless clique, letting all the hate that was being projected at him slide on his skin.

The impossible had been made possible: postponing the extinction of mankind at the hand of that pathetic power play.

But at that point, crawling in the hallways to the darkest corners that not even light could reach, the mysterious god widened his gruesome smile in the room he'd just entered. There, he found his allies: "So, let's plan how this tournament will go!"

Sometime later, the time had come to confront flesh and blood with heaven's justice. In the arena there was a withdrawn agitation, more similar to the buzzing of billions of insects than to the roar that had often shaken much smaller stadiums in the human realm.

Gods and humans, angels and monsters, myths and legends quivered on the stands without any idea of what to expect. Even clairvoyants, prophets and fortune-tellers gazed at an uncertain future, despite their plans of cheating on the bets. Who threw tantrums because their seat was too close to that of an ancient foe, who asked yet another time if the contestants had been announced, and then the most nervous spectators of all: the organizer gods.

Hidden away from that unknowing confusion, sat upon three thrones that formed a triangle above the arena, the managers of that event expressed clashing feelings.

Ptah, as the goddess of creation, was secretly satisfied with having brought to life something so great and celebratory. Nevertheless, a mask of tension had laid on her face for various hours, so evident that she was forced to avoid being filmed by the cameras.

She wore a vest made of golden scales that resembled wings on her dark skin, crossed by white tattoos that went up to her beautiful, frowned face.

On another throne, Baal was surprised by how much his smile was widening, stretching from ear to ear, deforming him completely and paying homage to his newly found demonic nature. He’d crossed his legs, and with anticipation he tapped his long claws on the throne, scratching it from time to time and making tremendous screeches. His head was as large as a ball, but thinned around his pointy, devilish ears.

Lastly the most bizarre of the organizers, still concealed from the cameras, floated on their seat. It was Chaos, a shapeless entity resembling a vortex of stirring light and shadow, smokey and weightless. But, in its incomprehensible and ineffable nature, it was possible to catch a glimpse of life, right at the center of its body, as in the singularity of a black hole: patience.

Chaos was waiting and he would have waited without fidgeting, talking, or ever expressing himself about the battle. After all, he’d been the first, the supreme disorder origin of all, the calm of the endless abyss. At the foot of his throne were all the gods that came after him: Gaea, born soon after, and his children Erebus and Nyx.

The goddess Nyx looked up to her father, letting out an indignant puff when she went back to carelessly looking at the arena. Her brother Erebus tapped on her shoulder, expressing curiosity without saying anything.

"It's about dad!" muttered the goddess of the night, draped with various veils that decorated her body as pale as the moon, and inside which the constellations moved.

"I got that, you know?" sighed the god of darkness, exasperated by his sister's scarce communication skills. He only showed his bare, dark chest, because the rest of his body, face included, was wrapped in a cape with a hood darker than anything that had ever existed from the dawn of time.

"He stands there without doing anything! He doesn't even cheer for the other gods, as if he didn't care about anyone…" was Nyx's annoyed response.

"Oh, come on! Of course he cares about all of us: who, if not the creator of everything, should care about the life of gods?" Erebus answered back.

"Being impartial is exciting." Gaea, the primordial goddess of the Earth, intervened in their debate.

The most ancient goddess wore a soft cape apparently made of mud, with a shawl, on which flowers continuously bloomed, wrapped under her hair the color of every plant in the world.

"I learnt at my expense that cheering for your children only leads to deadly despair when you see them perish. Staying impartial and not choosing a side, however, can lead to a surprise that is neither positive nor negative."

"A father or mother can really pretend not to care about their children?!" exclaimed upset Nyx, horrified by her aunt's words.

"You misunderstood my words, dear" smiled the Earth, lovingly.

"Chaos doesn't have anything or anyone at heart, simply because it does not have a heart. Whatever happens, even the annihilation of all the gods, wouldn't graze it a bit… it could be considered the worst fan ever."

No one could expect it or foresee it when it happened, but a hoarse croak from the speakers all over the arena announced the beginning of something never seen before.

"Ladies and gentlemen, gods and goddesses of every plane and every world…"

Two creatures inside a cabin carved in the seat rows had embraced their weapons, the microphones with which they would have chronicled the most awaited event in history.

"Finally, we announce the beginning… of the end!"

Those words were cryptic, confused, and unexpected; nevertheless, a roar exploded in every corner of the stadium: no god and no human cared about what would be said, because they’d come there exclusively to witness the decisive fights for their race. The presenters of the event were two beings most different from one another: the first looked like an old man wrapped in a candid tunic, the second had horrendous features of a donkey demon with a peacock tail and a blood-red shirt.

"What will happen between these walls? The destruction of humanity…" seriously suggested St. Peter, chancellor of Heaven.

"...or the overthrow of the gods?!" laughed coarsely Adramelech, chancellor of Hell.

"I'm sure no one here is ready for this slaughter" the saint dramatically commented.

"Nonetheless we have to ask: are you ready?!" the demon screamed, whipping the air with his tongue.

A second roar soared up in the sky. It was the voice of millennia and millennia of human and divine generations answering the call.

"Good, good" Adramelech put himself back together, satisfied. "Then, let's begin: I'd say your wait should be repaid with an opening fight deserving of this name."

"Remember this will be the first of ten bouts, featuring humans and deities of every era and place…"

While these voices echoed everywhere an ear - be it divine or human - could hear them, someone destined to be the first contestant advanced in a hallway.

An elegant, green cloak wrapped his body, in complete clash with a golden collar full of spikes, like that of a bull. The chest was protected by a scaled armor, golden on the surface, but made of stone underneath.

The most eye-catching detail of his presence was a pair of horns, long and bent backwards, that poked from a skein of hair more similar to the bristly hair of an animal.

In spite of his monstrous appearance, along with his height of more than seven feet, that being walked with graceful poise and a glance too worried to belong to a god.

During his approach, a Sumer servant was making sure that his armor was flawless, even though he trembled every time he touched him.

"My lord, is the armor of your liking?" he asked with supreme reverence. 

The beast nodded, looking him in the eye for a short moment.

"Still with your pride and your obtuse love for mankind, Enkidu?" inquired a goddess that appeared from the shadows, smiling mellifluously.

Of blonde hair, she was covered up to the breasts by a long dress made of intertwined silver strings, that anyway left her graces bare. Ishtar, the ancient Mesopotamian goddess of love and fertility, kept her mischievous smile, not catching any change in the beast man's expression.

The servant, however, had started trembling so violently that he couldn't kneel.

"What, human? Won't you kneel before your goddess?" Ishtar's voice ringed out again, warm and welcoming, in complete contrast with her eyes that, like embers, burned through the man.

The esquire looked at the floor, not being able to do anything other than quiver and sweat. The terror was so oppressive that he felt his soul being ripped out of his body with every passing second.

-I must… kneel… I must… kneel!- Something was wrong, he got that immediately.

His legs wouldn't budge and panic was stealing away every remaining glimpse of his sanity. 

-I can't.- He surrendered to his fate when the first tears started leaking from his eyes.

"It's not an obtuse love." 

Like a roll of thunder, the beast broke the tension-filled silence in that dark hallway.

By simply putting his gigantic finger on the man's nape, he pushed him down to the floor, making him sit on his knees.

The goddess wrinkled her nose, annoyed that a prey had gotten away from her perverse machinations.

"A part of me is and will always be forever tied to humans, whom I love with all my essence." The god created in image and likeness of humans called Enkidu put a hand at the center of his chest, expressing that reality of his with serenity and almost reverence.

That being said, he moved a step forward, leaving the slave behind and even surpassing the goddess without a glance. She hesitated to open her mouth, astonished by the immense size of the creature that had been by her side. Then, building back courage and composure, sure of her position, she went back to taunting him with a falsely innocent smile.

"You know  _ he _ won't be there to watch you, right? No one told him you would participate in the fights, and as always he prefers taking care of his own business rather than those of the mortals." 

Enkidu let those words slip on himself, walking forward towards the end of the tunnel.

"It makes sense, I imagined he would act like this."

He narrowed his eyes as he emerged in the sunlight.

-After all no one, man or god, would be able to face the people he betrayed… that's why I took it upon me!- 

"The first contestant on the gods' side is something rare, fierce, and incomprehensible!" Adramelech was yelling, admiring with everyone the opening of a giant door at the base of the arena.

"He has the ferocity of an animal, the bravery of a warrior, and the pride of a god! Created in image and likeness of the greatest of heroes… two-thirds god and one-third human… the second most famous warrior of all the kingdoms ever born between the Tigers and the Euphrates..."

St. Peter pointed at the entrance of the first constants as the crowd cheered.

** "Enkidu, the divine punishment of Uruk!" **

The monstrous god stepped first on the fighting ground, casting a mastodonic shadow thanks to his superhuman size.


	2. Fame and Shame

**  
Chapter 2: Fame and Shame   
**

** **

The Sumerian gods, gathered and intent on luxuriating with wine and food, quietly laughed upon the entrance of their champion. 

"What a shame, what a foolishness!" protested Enlil, god of air and tempest, with a tall, horned headgear. "I cannot tolerate that our pantheon is represented by... that thing, instead of Him! We're ruining our image!"

"What are you saying?" spouted Shamash, god of the Sun, his face red with drunkenness. "Who cares about who represents us?! Enkidu will be able to bring us to victory and the annihilation of those foolish humans anyway." 

Ishtar, who had taken a seat among them in the meantime, softly giggled at that statement and couldn't not rejoice in the view that appeared on the opposite grandstand. 

Right there, a modern human was showing a confused look.

"Who's this Enkidu? A Sumerian god?"

"No" answered with a hoarse and deep-sounding voice someone that had just materialized on his side. 

A Sumerian warrior with a long beard and crossed arms looked at the godly contestant with an imperturbable gaze, as one looks at a storming sea or another phenomenon that's fascinating in its scariness.

"Enkidu was created by the gods to teach our king to behave responsibly and fairly towards his folk. He was meant to challenge him and defeat him in combat..."

In a matter of seconds, the man observed how the whole grandstand had been filled with Sumerian warriors, as still as statues and with contrite expressions.

"Nonetheless our king and he became dear friends, protectors of Mesopotamia from all evil... they were our heroes." This time it was an old man of bronzed skin that spoke, holding uncountable stone slates and steel needles. "The tales of their feats... were the most beloved in the then-known world! They were a great inspiration to all the fighters who then rose in our wonderful land between rivers."

Sin-lēqi-unninni, ancient writer, started spilling tears full of grief on his own creation: the Epic of Gilgamesh.

"And now they've both abandoned us, fighting for mankind's destruction." Like a dirge, the cries of the Sumerian army that had lived thousands of years before echoed, filled with sadness and misery.

Inevitably, they reached Enkidu's ears. He was now standing at the center of the arena.

Only that excruciating whine filled the stadium, confusingly agitating the humans and making the Sumerian gods' laughs grow.

The sound was so haunting it made the Earth quake.

"SHUT UP!" It happened in a moment: the divine creation gaped his fangs open, revealing a row of sharp teeth, erupting a shout so loud it made the soil everyone stood on shake even more.

The arena trembled, the gods went pale and the humans pressed themselves in their seats in fear.

That being, surrounded by a mysterious calm until then, had revealed a beastly, feral nature, soaked to the brim with homicidal intent. Repeatedly raising his shoulder while catching his breath, his presence in the arena seemed to have grown bigger and more dangerous. Even the presenters, safe in their cabin, had gone silent.

Consequently, the whole universe had plunged into silence.

"That beast… it's frightening" murmured the gods who had never heard about Enkidu, and so did the men.

They started whispering the tales of his deeds, or theories about what he would be able to do to his unlucky opponent. One thing was sure: a pressing, reverential awe was spreading in the grandstands, earlier crowded with anticipation for the upcoming fight.

"This sight will surely be impressed in their minds for a very long time…" commented an amused individual in the shadow of a tribune.

He was accompanied by only two deities, who stayed silent.

"Don't you agree?" Phobetor, the minor god of slumber, creator of nightmares, turned to his companions. His gaudy smile was provocative. He looked like a guy in his twenties, but with a crest of black and purple hair on his head, resuming the theme of his elegant dresses.

"I care relatively little about how scary he is." Responded a creature laid on the ground, his head resting on a pillow.

He resembled a chubby boy, covered by a cape of lion fur, with a scaled helmet lowered on his head and nape. 

"There have been many people that looked scary, but had a kind soul… and vice versa. I will judge him when he lands on the other side." concluded Ammit, the Egyptian beast called the Devourer.

"So you're presuming Enkidu will be defeated?" Phobetor narrowed his eyes, and not hearing any answer he started laughing coarsely.

The third member of the group had stayed silent, his glance pointed on the arena.

-If he's scary… if he has a kind soul… none of this matters.- He thought.

-What matters is that, as a herald of these pathetic and vainglorious deities… he will crumble under mankind's power!-

The mysterious god turned to the still-closed door.

-Win, my warrior!-

"W-well…!" Adramelech regained control over his voice with great effort, watching St. Peter gulp in vain.

"Will his opponent manage to gift us a fight worthy of this event? I think he will!"

Humanity's side at that point concentrated on something extremely important for all of them: who would ensure their salvation?

"He may not be a god, but before us stands the man who wrote the Bible of martial arts!"

The second door flung open, presenting apparently only a giant, dark shape.

"The one who revolutionized the world of combat! The one who never stopped fighting, surviving the Second World War and becoming the pride of both Japan and Korea."

Finally, someone emerged from the darkness, slowly pacing forward with confidence on that giant stage, even when the crowd's cheers exploded at full volume in celebration.

A row of men and women of every age, but all at the peak of their strength, dressed in gi's for martial arts, beat their fists on the grandstands, cheering.

"Also known as Baedal, the Bull-Killer, originally born as Choi Young-Eui in his homeland…"

Karatekas from all around the world, joint in a single voice, shouted along with the presenters the name of the man who would protect the human race.

Surrounded by that scream, a man with features as hard as steel, a pair of bushy eyebrows and dressed in a dirty gi, torn in many spots and stained with blood.

"Masutatsu Oyama, the Divine Hand!"

The Sumerian gods' creation, Enkidu, and the karateka known as the strongest in the world locked eyes. Finally one in front of the other, they had a height difference of about one foot, that anyway didn't make the human look smaller. He had a chest width much superior to the god's, armour included.

None of them breathed, probably observing something they had never seen in their lives.

Some humans looked skeptical.

"Are we really entrusting humanity to a karateka? His opponent remains a god…"

Their bitter whispers were shushed when a man sat with cockiness burst in a cold laugh.

"This man… this man… I've always dreamed of meeting him, as well as fighting him. I'm sure that, if I hadn't dedicated my career to cinema back then, our battle would have been legendary."

He wore a green Chinese jacket that matched the pants, and had a nunchaku made of black steel laid against his neck. His hair was short, his forehead wide and his features eastern.

When the humans sat next to him recognized him, they almost fell from their seats or fainted.

"Bruce Lee?!"

The famous Chinese martial artist, known for having exported in the West the philosophy of martial arts, had his typical smug smile on his face.

"Masutatsu Oyama is a martial artist that followed my teachings from my book, and even recreated every single one of my trainings in the same place I went in hermitage to..." muttered thoughtfully another character, who caught the attention of everyone who hadn't been stunned by Bruce Lee's presence.

The man was wearing a large, slightly concave bamboo hat that hid his face. The only recognizable features of his were an unkempt beard and a ponytail that wildly fell on his neck.

As he talked to himself he stroked the sheath of his katana, protected by his girdle, with his thumb.

"Go figure!" then sighed the swordsman, lifting his hat with his finger. "Looks like I'll have to cheer for a disciple of mine: lucky me!"

"That man is…!" gasped every Japanese and history connoisseur around him, with an even more puzzled reaction than before.

"Kensei Miyamoto Musashi!" So they identified the legendary warrior who lived in the seventeenth century, whose title meant sword-saint.

All the bystanders had come from different eras to witness the decisive showdown for the planet's future.

What Bruce Lee, Miyamoto Musashi, and every karateka who followed the Kyokushinaki style agreed on was that, if martial arts didn't grant mankind the ability to defeat god, it was the end for all of them.

It was right then that humans came together to pray not a god or an idol, but the strength of the muscles and minds of their people who had shaped martial arts throughout centuries.

"And this is how…"

Adamelech and St. Peter took a deep breath before screaming into the microphones at the top of their lungs what everyone wanted to hear.

"...the Ragnarok begins!!"

A religious silence shushed gods and humans, channeling their attention towards the two main characters of that first bout.

It was hard defining what one would expect to see. Some thought about a no-holds-barred match, others predicted a unilateral slaughter, or maybe something impossible to understand for someone not used to duels.

Despite every expectation, none of that happened.

Mas Oyama and Enkidu hadn't stopped studying each other, not even after the opening announcement.

Immediately, panic and confusion raged like a storm throughout the stadium rings. Nonetheless, the chatter didn't shake the two opponents, who faced each other without budging.

Enkidu, eight feet and two inches tall, managed to size up his opponent, perfectly englobing him in his gigantic shadow. He scanned every single detail: his ragged, pilgrim-like outfit, his hardened visage crossed by countless wounds, and his long hair, puffed like a mane, that framed two small, dark eyes.

The karateka was five feet and seven inches tall, and at the peak of his weight he maybe reached one hundred and seventy-five Libres - almost five hundred less than his opponent. 

What he saw before him was something wild, but wilder than a mountain animal, despite his regal posture. In fact, when he heard that abominable scream echo in Valhalla's arena before crossing the gate, he'd asked himself if it wasn't some primordial beast that awaited him.

So, facing that creature, more anthropomorphic that he'd thought, was such a relief to him. 

"You're very cheered for" Enkidu observed, quickly eyeing the bleachers around him.

The karateka nodded, shrugging while showing a smug smile.

"More than your kind does for you, it seems."

"You're absolutely right" answered the Sumerian warrior without losing his composure. "Among gods, I can't boast the same fame as you, a worthy human martial artist. Anyway, it bothers me facing such an esteemed warrior… and finding him so hollow."

Those words, of a disarming coldness, were enough to make the man raise his guard. No threat was done to him, nor his contestant seemed intent on attacking him, but with a simple sentence he'd managed to set off a defense mechanism intrinsic in his brain.

In Mas Oyama, without even knowing why, twitched a brakeless fighting instinct.

Anyway, on the outside he only looked very confused, and the god went on talking:

"You look very dissatisfied with the praises your kind cheers for you with. Are they not enough? Or maybe do you already think I'm a boring opponent?"

"None of this. A boring opponent wouldn't dare speak like this… unless he's someone who's only good at talking!"

Slightly arching his back and stretching his arms at the sides of his body, Masutatsu took a fighting stance. His face, on which his hair cast a shadow, was contorted in a challenging grin.

Enkidu annoyedly sighed, foreseeing what would happen.

With a roll as loud as thunder, the karateka slammed both of his feet on the bare ground, leaping forward. He twisted mid-air with surprising agility despite his size, hitting his opponent with an axe-kick on the neck.

"You were born fifty thousand years after me, but I sadly see that men always get inebriated by their homicidal heat." Enkidu's comment had been said with utter calm while he moved to the side to dodge the hit, being heard exclusively by the man.

Masutatsu kept his eyes wide open, staring at his stoic expression. He maintained his concentration even when, once he'd grazed the soil with his other foot, he whipped the air with his already contacted leg in a heel kick.

Enkidu avoided the blow coming from a blind spot by simply stepping backward, obviously covering a great distance.

"You're very nimble. I've heard that many centuries after the fall of Uruk the Greeks invented a combat style called pankration… but this dance of yours looks like something completely different." The Sumerian could resume talking when his opponent stopped for a second, being at a safe distance.

"Dance?" he repeated absentmindedly, presenting an absorbed expression.

The following moment he went back to the chase, this time by staying anchored to the ground.

He slipped inside Enkidu's guard, glueing his legs to those of his foe. Keeping his arms close to his body, he suddenly stopped.

All of his muscles except the legs relaxed, to Enkidu's great surprise.

"You think keeping this distance will make it easier for you to hit me?" His words got topped and interrupted by the Japanese's more and more mechanical voice.

"That thing you call a dance is centuries of Chinese, Japanese, and Korean martial arts merged and reinvented under the guide of many masters, to reach absolute perfection in combat."

Even though his answer had caused him a certain worry, the god protested.

"Perfection? I'll prove to you that from where you are now you won't be able to score one blow, let alone…"

"Why do you keep avoiding my attacks?" the man cut him off.

This time he raised his head, overcoming with his gaze the distance that separated him from the god to face him with all his determination and confidence.

"From what is known, humans shouldn't be able to injure gods… right?"

In the shadow cast by Enkidu himself, a frightening, fully-fledged smile widened on the young warrior's face.

The god flinched at those words, but didn't have the time to answer with reason: once again, he felt the urgency of dodging a blow.

Masutatsu extended his right arm in a single, rapid, upwards punch, while Enkidu was already pulling back his head to evade it.

A massive air movement, much bigger than the two contestants, crossed the entire battlefield like a gust of wind only to crash against the walls beneath the grandstands.

Dust and soil flew in unison, generating an inch-deep crack the shape of a funnel. With a single blow sound itself seemed to have been wiped off; it was unthinkable that a human arm was the one who caused it.

When the dust settled, the foes' shapes were revealed, standing exactly as they were just a second earlier.

The only difference was Masutatsu's arm, stretched forward, his fist blocked just a millimeter away from his opponent's face. The muscle still trembled, the veins pulsating on the surface as if they were about to burst.

"I stalled earlier because I wanted to find out why you were dodging every blow of mine, despite your presumed immortality." the man revealed serenely, lifting his chin to finally look at his opponent from head to toe.

"So imagine my surprise now that I've discovered the truth… a single finger is enough for me to make a god bleed!"

A chilling revelation was disclosed with those words, forcing horrified gods and astonished humans to concentrate on Enkidu.

What they had believed for those brief moments was false: Masutatsu's fist had indeed stopped without impacting on anything, nonetheless his middle finger knuckle protruded like a spur, lodged in the god's nose bridge.

In utter silence, but going pale in confusion, the Sumerian god finally managed to retract his head. The result was that the wounds on his nose, now broken and collapsed inwards, spouted small streams of blood.

-So… so it was true…- Enkidu thought to himself, sensing too late that something was moving.

-It was just a feeling, but I was right!-

Masutatsu followed with another punch after grabbing his enemy from the chest armour, plunging it into his face as much as he could. A literal waterfall of blood originated from the divine creation's mouth, flowing on his dangling head.

The karateka, still holding him with a single hand even though he was more than three times his weight, smugly smiled at humanity's tribune.

"Well! Now that we've broken the illusion, it looks like my people can finally hope for a more fair tournament."

The human crowd cheered for the hero, their eyes damp, waving banners with his name. 

On the other side, the gods' tribune had fallen into chaos.

"A human that is able to make a god bleed?! This isn't absolutely conceivable!" someone screamed, shocked by such a blasphemy.

"To tell the truth…" An intervened, god of the sky and president of the assembly of Mesopotamian deities, requiring silence.

"In the endless story of innumerable pantheons and struggles between gods, demigods, and humans, more than once it is heard of a god who bleeds at a human's hand."

The giant, of skin as blue as a clear sky lit by a shining full moon, discreetly eyed a certain goddess sat nearby.

"However a man wouldn't manage to achieve this without any help…"

Soon the truth spread among the grandstands, becoming known - and inexplicable - to everyone.

The trio formed by Phobetor, Ammit, and the mysterious god laughed up in their sleeves in their dark corner.

"Oh my! Oh my! This will definitely fill the gods' nights with nightmares!"

The Devourer Beast lazily grinned, then taking a malicious gaze at his companion who'd stayed aside. "Yeah, but… what's his Sephirot?"

The ten Sephirots are the most powerful esoteric symbols ever known, tied and intertwined according to the Tree of Life: benevolent towards mankind, they represent the paths it has to take in the canons of Love, Strength, and Compassion.

Being out of the gods' domain, they are the only weapon that can be used by mankind to face its extinction.

"Ghevura, the Power!"

To the gods it was horror and shame, to mankind it was the first, true light of certain hope.

God could bleed. God could be killed.

Down in the battlefield, the atmosphere was oppressive, made heavier by the crowd's more and more intense chatter.

However, the two contestants hadn't broken a sweat yet.

"What are you doing? Are you giving up?" The karateka taunted his opponent, who was deadweight and whose arms dangled, touching the soil.

"I'm thinking."

"You're thinking?" he confusedly repeated.

"I'm thinking about who might have played this trick on me. I didn't even know I was vulnerable to human blows, yet I had this horrendous feeling the moment you struck your first blow: I felt the urge to dodge it, as if my life depended on it."

"If you only think and talk this isn't a duel." Masutatsu answered, frowning. He didn't know whether to be offended or disappointed by his opponent's behavior. "In a true duel one must get angry, expressing concepts only through fists!"

"Do you want me to get angry?" After a long stillness, Enkidu slightly raised his head, glancing directly at his foe.

The karateka saw himself reflected into the god's eyes, see-through like a clear sky. He saw his own face going pale, and in a second that reflection got bigger and closer.

"This is how I get angry!" Roaring furiously, the giant had got up with a kip-up, crashing his head against the man's.

With that simple movement, he lifted the man one foot off the ground.

"Incredible! Masutatsu Oyama took his first blow from the start of the match!" Adramelech yelled, followed by a horrified screech from mankind's side.

"Looks like the two hits inflicted on Enkidu, even though amazing, weren't enough to stop him!" St. Peter agreed, hearing the divine crowd cheering.

"If you hit, they cheer for you and despise me… and only when I land a blow they dare to praise me as if I'm their kind…" Enkidu didn't waste any time, grabbing the man by the shoulder while he was still mid-air.

The two hands of his were enough to cover his entire body almost completely.

"This hypocrisy… This is what makes me angry!" Exploding newly in a rage outburst, the Sumerian god pointed his opponent with his horns, plunging them towards his chest.

Mas, who'd just barely regained consciousness after the surprise blow, did his best not to stay unconscious for a second too much. Guided by adrenaline and visceral fear of death triggered by the sight of the sharp, incoming horns, he put his arms forward. The sleeves of his gi tore when the creature's most lethal weapons reached him, digging into his forearms. Once they'd grazed the elbow they stopped diving deeper: the man had managed to block their path by grabbing Enkidu's skull.

However, the god hadn't run out of fury, initiating his true attack instead.

He bent his head down, making his opponent violently crash to the ground, involuntarily slave of his own block. Then he moved a step forward.

The karateka pulled back his legs, avoiding them to be stomped by Enkidu's feet. He comprehended too late that his foe didn't mean to crush him, precisely when he started being dragged. Step by step, first slowly, then more and more violently, the god exploited every muscle of his to launch himself into an overwhelming charge.

The man's view field reduced to the horns in front of him that threatened to pierce through him more and more, while his back was being used to dig a rut in the rocks. His dress was torn, while his back muscles started to rip, hit by the hard stone.

The speed of Enkidu's charge registered from the outside, at the hand of the staff for the show's broadcast, was one hundred and seventy miles per hour.

"It's the Charge of the Heavenly Bull…" exclaimed a Sumerian general, trembling in surprise. Lots of other soldiers like him seemed to recognize what he was talking about, and nodded quietly.

"The famous technique Enkidu learnt by defeating the Heavenly Bull, the creature sent from the gods to kill him!"

In the legend the Heavenly Bull was a homicidal fury that was able to leave only death and destruction behind, which was exactly what Enkidu's technique was reenacting in real life, terrorizing everyone with his fierceness.

"A bull, huh?" Surprisingly, a mocking laughter rose in answer to those worried voices.

Bruce Lee, whose smile has never left the face, pointed at the arena, prompting his kind to pay more attention.

"Even though I never saw him fight live, the rumors about Masutatsu Oyama are famous all around the world… even a fool knows that he's dealt with bulls his whole life!"

Perfectly on beat with the martial artist's words, Mas Oyama opened his eyes wide.

The pain was rapidly suppressed, because his brain has started to process, quicker than Enkidu's charge, the precise stimuli to send to the body.

In less than a second he would have reached the battlefield's wall, and at that speed he would surely become a bloody mush. He had no time to waste.

His legs being free and intact, he raised them well over his body. After having lowered them on Enkidu's horns, he had all four of his limbs on them.

The wall was as close as ever, but the god didn't have the time to see what was before him: this was because when he looked up he didn't find his opponent anymore.

Eluding his view field, Masutatsu had lifted himself with all four of his limbs on his head, arched forward.

Proceeding forward out of inertia, and beyond the foe's back, he retracted his hands and concentrated all of his strength in the legs. What happened next was that Enkidu's six hundred and sixty Libres were lifted off the ground thanks to his own strength, and in a second the god was flying in the air with his head facing the sky.

-What…?- he managed to ask himself, losing speed. He lingered on the gods' disgusted expressions.

Before he could formulate another thought, Masutatsu terminated his somersault by stretching his legs downwards, slamming his opponent on the ground at full speed.

The earth quivered, so violently that a web of cracks spread on that whole side of the arena, reaching even the wall nearby.

The karateka landed on his tiptoes, observing his enemy's outstretched body, now unmoving and unable move.

"What a risk!" He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a relieved sigh. The clutch on the horns with his legs was a surprise even to himself, making him astounded at what his brain was able to do under pressure.

The memories of about a decade of his life ironically appeared right after he had touched death: they belonged to the moment when, after having challenged and defeated all the martial arts masters in Japan, he'd understood that only an animal could be stronger than man.

Fifty-two, that was the number of bulls he'd killed barehanded without ever losing, because that would have meant death. When he managed to kill three with a single punch at the center of the head, he gained the title of Divine Hand.

The martial artists of the whole world meanwhile shouted at the sky with their fists raised, cheering for the fighter who was better than the gods in technique, speed, and strength.

"These sure can be defined as martial arts able to defeat gods." Kensei Miyamoto nodded, satisfied with the show, relaxing in the chair after all the accumulated tension.

"But the fight is not over yet…" he foresaw, and in that exact moment the roar stopped.

"I…" Enkidu's hand had been placed on the ground, while with his shoulder he started gaining strength to get back up.

"I can't lose here."

The shape of Masutatsu loomed over him like the shadow of death itself, his eyes lit by the greed to keep on fighting.

He lifted his foot and then stomped it on the god's nape, producing a chilling snap that resonated in the air.

"I must win…" Enkidu continued, apparently insensitive to the hit he'd just received.

His back trembled slightly when, thanks to his other hand pointed on the ground, he tried to straighten himself.

-...and get out of here!-

"Urrryah!!" the karateka then screamed, deciding to impress even more strength in the next blow, taking advantage of the foe's defenseless pose: bending the knee and twisting his entire body downwards, the landed a devastating punch on his temple.

At that point the god hesitated, becoming still.

A copious trickle of blood streamed down his forehead, puddling above his eyebrow before dripping on his chin.

-I want to get out of here. I can't take it anymore…- Only these words echoed in his mind, along with the echo of the received hits.

Undaunted, he resumed his tentative.

"That's impossible! That punch can kill a bull, Enkidu shouldn't even be alive after all those blows!" some human yelled terrified, shivering at that chilling scenario.

"Enkidu is a legendary warrior" a woman's voice knowingly warned him.

"Warrior?! He looks like a beast!" he answered.

At those words, the woman contracted her face in an annoyed expression, full of grief and rage.

"He is more than that."

She was wearing a long, blue dress, with a motive of lacey embroidered waves. Her long dark hair fell on her shoulders the colour of red soil, crowned by a circle of bells.

"When he came to this world at the hand of the gods he truly was a beast, so he lived with those of his kind in complete harmony: he drank from rivers, grazed the grass in the prairies and freed preys from hunters… nonetheless, if we citizens of Uruk wanted to be saved from that divine gift, first we had to educate it to be more similar to us" explained Shamhat, Ishtar's priestess, the first human to ever know Enkidu.

Her voice sounded sadder and sadder, evoking those unhappy memories.

"I was in charge, as priestess: we stayed together for seven days, and I taught him how to behave and even what clothes to wear… in that timespan Enkidu learnt to behave exactly like a completely civilized man, even though mere days before he didn't know any of that."

"What did you say? In a single week?!"

"Precisely, and when he battled with our king, he did it the Sumerians' way. What I'm saying is that in Enkidu both man's cunningness and animal instinct coexist, along with a strength borne of both these natures… besides the ability to adapt to even the most drastic of changes. This ability is called Naked Ape Intuition."

After those words, Shamhat raised her head to reveal cheeks wet with tears of grief.

"And even if I was a priestess, now I see my life in danger because of the gods… or better, because of Enkidu, our saviour… the one I taught everything to."

"It's… true!" A deep voice, but broken by tears as well, supported her.

The priestess turned around, facing the entire host of weeping Uruk soldiers.

Moments before they were celebrating every blow landed by Masutatsu, along with the martial artists, but now their faces were fit for a funeral. The wept, they cried, they clawed their fists or beat them on the grandstands.

Their hopelessness was palpable, to the point where they didn't seem interested in the outcome of the battle anymore. In their hearts, they only knew what they'd lost.

"Enkidu… Enkidu, you…" gasped the first one.

"...you're a traitor! The shame of Uruk!"

Others followed him, this time aware that nothing could stop them from expressing all of their sadness. They were witnessing not only humanity's disgrace, but even their saviour fighting tenaciously to put an end to their lives.

"You're not worthy of fighting with the ardor of a warrior of Uruk!"

"You didn't deserve our friendship!"

"I even called my son like you out of adoration! How do you pay me back?!"

Their yells alone were enough to cover every other sound in Valhalla's arena, inevitably reaching the gods.

Ishtar, sat aside even among her kind, crossed her legs and gave mankind a disgusted glance.

"Still thinking, Enkidu?" Masutatsu turned back to his opponent after a long silence. "Are you perhaps thinking about how living is meaningless, now that both men and gods vex you?"

His harsh words were heard even though the yells from the grandstands filled the air.

"Did you perhaps think that, if you'd won, you would have gained the gratitude and respect of your new… companions? Here you are instead: you have nothing."

The karateka slowly moved towards his foe, still kneeled and unable to move a muscle. When he could graze him with his legs, he bent his head downwards, reaching his to look him in the eye.

"You've lost everything, great warrior." He whispered in his ear, while in his eyes shone a reflection of pure violence.

At that point, guarded by the bout's secrecy, Mas Oyama had turned into a vulgar embodiment of power and destruction, only able to crush his opponent with any means available.

"At least I have surrendered to this evidence…" was the Sumerian god's answer, overturning the karateka's expectations.

Enkidu then raised his head, facing the other's murderous gaze with a pleased smile.

"Are you sure to have accepted that, no matter how much they compliment you, you'll never get back what you've lost? Would you be willing to accept it on your deathbed? I don't think so… great warrior."

Those mocking sentences were the finger that pushed the trigger: every glimpse of self-control in Masutatsu shattered, and every light in his eyes went suddenly dim.

-HOW DARE YOU?!- The karateka immediately lifted his right leg, pointing it to the sky before hitting his enemy without caring to respect his condition.

The kick was predicted to be the stronger of the blows landed during the bout, and maybe even throughout his whole, already concluded life. But, blinded by his own power, he forgot the most important detail he'd stopped paying attention to: Enkidu's eyes. These, now bent in a smiling expression, soon disappeared from his sight, as well as the beast's entire body.

Having constricted his foe in the fittest of moments, the Sumerian warrior could easily predict each and every move of his. Consequently, he stood up with his regained strength, and lifting his leg as well he intercepted Mas Oyama's with a heavy upwards kick.

The contestants' flesh, shaped by innumerable superhuman battles, clashed producing an almost metallic clank, as if two armours had shattered each other.

"Enkidu's and Masutatsu's kick crossed!" the presenters cried in unison, as shocked as the public by that manifestation of raw power.

For a mere second, that looked like an infinite period to the bystanders, the opponents' legs floated in the air apparently without moving.

In the end, the wait came to an end, and something shifted: tendons, bones, and muscles.

Enkidu's legs pierced violently through the karateka's knee, making it explode in the air in a bloody mush.

The man's body didn't manage to bear the immense weight and brutality of the enemy's blow, and reached its limit, it inevitably gave in.

Some humans screamed in horror, while others, aware of what that hit landed on their herald meant, didn't even find the courage to breathe.

"We're done for…"

"No. Masutatsu had foreseen it…" murmured Miyamoto Musashi, who had never been so serious and so focused in his life.

What nobody would have expected happened so quickly that it lasted the blink of an eye.

The lower part of Masutatsu's leg, now broken in its main joint and utterly dislocated, contorted downwards in a humanly unreachable position. Doing so, it drew an arch over Enkidu's head, falling like a scythe on a long prefixed target: one of his horns.

The Divine Hand grinned despite the pain, as happy as ever of not having succumbed to rage when his kick snapped the right horn.

This broke at the base, due to the precedent blow that had the secret goal of weakening it, and dropped. In its fall, it only met Enkidu's bare shoulder and pierced through his flesh with all its sharpness. It was then that, for the first time, the Sumerian warrior screamed in pain.

Prey to shock, his mind was stormed by one too many thoughts.

\- How is this possible? When? With what… strength?!-

Rapidly, Mas Oyama grabbed both of his opponent's horns, the one on the right shoulder and the left one on the head, before turning around and slamming him wildly on the ground.

"OSSU!"

What followed was comparable to a bolt of lightning that crashed into the battlefield's floor, opening an even bigger pit among the cracks and making the gigantic circular walls dangerously quake.

The kiai, that's to say the shout let out during Masutatsu's attack, echoed in the air, covering even the rumble of breaking stone. That battle cry, that belonged to the man shaped by martial arts, kept on soaring in the sky, ascending to glory.

It wasn't long before the humans, at first too astonished to move, imitated it in chorus.

"Ossu! Ossu! Ossu! Ossu!" shouted, chanted, and rejoiced mankind.

The decisive blow had been inflicted.

The karateka found himself beneath the sky, but far higher than he'd ever hoped to be. Full of pride, he puffed his chest, giving his crowd a shining smile.

But, just like the one previously shown by Enkidu, it was a fake smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! In this chapter the first match has officially begun! Thanks for all the appreciation, dear readers ^^! I have made a Discord server where I can notify you about the updates, and share some behind-the-curtains info about the story. You will find also an (horrible, because it's made by me) drawing featuring the two vanguards, and the full list of fighters!  
> Link: https://discord.gg/ThsvXt


	3. The Pain of a Past Sunset

** Chapter 3: The Pain of a Past Sunset **

_** 1946, Tokyo, Japan ** _

_ That one truly was a godless night. _

_ In the poorest streets of the Japanese capital, making his way through whorehouses and street vendors, a man was staggering looking for something to hold on to. The liquor still soaked his mustaches so much that he started to wonder if he’d really paid for all of it. _

_The shouting from the suburbs sounded like howling and it scared him, making him continuously bounce from one wall to another, rarely finding a passerby to bump into. Unfortunately, two of these were much bigger and withstood the impact, while he fell in the mush that covered the pebbles. It had rained earlier, and the brown water of the puddle splashed on his face and clothes._  
_  
_

_ “Oh my fucking god, Johnny! This drunk-ass Jap looks like he’s looking for a fight!” An American soldier aggressively lifted him off the ground, but his comrade burst out laughing and pushed him away. _

_ “No way, Stanley! I think that he’s looking for a toilet to throw up like a tramp!" _

_ Masutatsu felt so flaccid he couldn’t even get back up, while that blurred world made his throat and his head burn. Even when the men cornered him, mounting him on the wall and slapping him, he didn’t manage to move a muscle. _

_ “The war is over, little samurai! And your ridiculous country has lost!” one yelled in his face. Then, he tried to use the basic Japanese he’d learnt: “If you make me mad… BOOM!” And he mimicked the gesture of an explosion with his hands. _

_ “We’ll drop another bomb on your head! Bwahahahaha!!” _

_ At that moment in the Japanese’s mind a tremendous dream of death and destruction was born, or rather reborn, or rather exploded. No defeat was worse than that desolation, of that blank slate caressed by a warm wind, like the red robe of a death god that taunted him. _

_ He felt on his skin the breath of a man that pushed him to fight from beyond the grave. They wanted him to rebel, to win back Japan’s honour. _

_ “I didn’t lose any war...” The American soldiers were stunned when they were answered with that whisper, to the point where they couldn't believe that man really had the bravery to speak. _

_ Instinctively they got ready for a fight, but when they’d just finished articulating that thought, fists filled with all the hatred a man could feel had already sunk in their faces.  _

_ “I DIDN’T LOSE ANY WAR!!” _

_ ** 1946, some months later, Japan, Yamanashi Prefecture ** _

_ The young man was in the middle of a country road, completely alone. _

_ Him against the world. Man against nature. _

_ Despite everything he’d gone through in his life, between violence and fatigue, the sight of Mount Minobo was enough to send him miles and miles away. _

_ He felt like he was fading away, becoming smaller and smaller compared to the green mountain covered with snowy stains. _

_ He resolutely slapped his cheeks, suppressing that oppressive sensation. _

_ -No, I won't run!- he thought, smiling nervously.  -After all, no one would ever run from their home.-  _

_ Thus he began his lonely climb, sinking his bare feet in the ground made wet and cold by the first snow. The weight of a gigantic backpack on his shoulder didn't bother him at all, preventing him from adventuring into narrow passages, surpassing rivers, and sliding between slopes. _

_ He looked for a house, constantly wondering if he would find it near a waterfall, or a hare den. In the wild and untouched holiness of that mountain, he was sure that someone before him had found a shelter. _

_ He thought back to the book stuck under the gi as white as the snow he was treading on, close to his heart: the Book of The Five Rings. Its author, Miyamoto Musashi, had walked those same paths three thousand years earlier while he was writing it for the first time. _

_ The cold stung his skin, particularly hurting on the scars gained recently and distracting him from his dreams of glory. Drawn back to reality, he went ahead on his journey with an ever darker gaze. _

_ The wounds that had appeared on his body in the past months were a shame, but no one he'd talked to could understand what they meant for him. _

_ Many martial artists, what he aspired to be, considered a shame only the wounds obtained through defeat. _

_ -But what do they know about the shame of victory?- More and more disdainful, he went further in the freezing wind that slid down the mountain like an avalanche. _

_ The memories of glory he'd relished for so long were over, replaced by a deplorable existence. _

_Nights drowned in alcohol, spent unleashing his rage on American troops that had just landed in Japan, defeated at war. He didn't care at all about war: Japan wasn't his country, Americans weren't his enemies, nonetheless that world deserves to taste his punches as much as every opponent he'd ever fought._  
  
_  
_

_ He let his backpack heavily fall on a stone that slightly emerged from the snow. He didn't dare to smile, now that he'd arrived at the place where he would settle. _

_ Slow but inevitable, he worked to build a hut, using the side of a hill as a shield against the wind. The last swallows flew towards the blood-red sky, fleeing now that the snowfall had ended. _

_ The coldness and hardness of stone and wood were the only things that touched Masutatsu's hands, and so it would be for all of his stay. _

_ Three years. He'd chosen to stay there for three years, so maybe he had to adapt quickly to those conditions. The cold didn't scare him, solitude didn't sadden him, and he could defeat feral animals from dawn 'til dusk. _

_ That was the hermit training of Miyamoto Musashi, the greatest swordsman ever existed, thanks to which he was able to become a legend and inspire the fighting world. _

_ He wanted to become all of that, and was ready to welcome whatever experience and knowledge nature would send his way. _

_ -Then why…?- _

_ He was crying. _

_ He had stopped working. Suddenly he didn't want to build a hut anymore, nor follow the Book of the Five Rings, or a legendary life. The cold was hurting everywhere, even his heart. Mostly on the scar on his heart. _

_ In an access of rage he ripped the gi from his body, throwing it in the snow. White on white. _

_ He stomped on the ground, the stones, the branches, jumped on trees and knocked them down with moves made perfect by years of training. His unmoving opponents weren't worth the fight, as they fell on the ground with an explosive sound. _

_ The fallen leaves were bullet shells. The water stream that was starting to freeze resembled a river of blood pouring from a pile of crammed corpses. _

_ Around Masutatsu there was no snow anymore, but skulls and bones, wrapping him in a silent white hell. _

_ The memory he’d tried to seal away for so long broke free from his heart like a vicious animal, slashing his chest open to come out. _

_ He was still Choi Bae-Dal, a Korean guy enlisted for Japanese military service to react to the invaders of an unknown country. He’d never cared at all about the world, that was why he ignored the meaning of the war he knew Japan and his homeland were fighting. _

_ For all of his youth, he’d only focused on the concept of strength. To him, martial arts were a wonderful expression of elegance and power. He’d known them since he was a child training with a family friend, and in his hometown he was known as one of the strongest youths.  _

_ Proud of a strength he wished to increase, he’d grown curious of the force the Japanese soldiers were boasting about, and his dream of becoming one of them had finally come true. _

_ Every day he would sit at the canteen with his comrades, who were Korean too. They were kept apart from the other soldiers, because of the typical coldness of racism vaguely masked by made-up hierarchies to push them aside. They hope the situation would improve in time, and to show the Japanese they were just as useful as them, they had to become worthy and versed in the art of war. _

_ One morning the usual morning chatter was interrupted by the entrance of a general. He got close to their table, and after a glance of inspection, placed his hand on the shoulder of a friend of Bae-Dal. _

_ He told him, as much as they could understand Japanese, that he’d been promoted to pilot. _

_ Breakfast was accompanied by happiness and a tad of envy, even if all the Koreans were a bit proud of the achievement of one of their group. At that moment all they were hoping for was to become pilots as soon as possible. _

_ That same night, the comrade didn’t show up.  _

_ Days went by, and more and more Korean rolls became pilots during breakfast. All of them weren’t at the table anymore by dinner.  _

_ Choi was alone. _

_ He found himself staring at his dish with lost eyes, lit by a lamp hung over his head. The shadow he cast was lonely, stretching among the seats where he’d talked to his companions about hopes and dreams. _

_ Many of them wished for strength, others strived for fame, but ultimately they hoped the war would be over soon to come back home to their families with an adequate salary. _

_ He didn’t know whether they’d found all of that. _

_ What he’d come to know was a word that had started to echo along with giggles of mockery from the Japanese soldiers towards him and his friends during the morning promotion. _

_ “Kamikaze.” _

_ Masutatsu’s fist made the rock explode like the dreams of glory he and his friends had chased in the past. Fragments of stones and tears from his red eyes dissolved in the air. _

_ Nothing confirmed whether that road would bring him to success, or yet another illusion. _

_ Attracted by strength he was doomed to get hurt more and more, and so he prayed his next wound would make him forget the greatest grief of his life. _

_ ** Mesopotamia, circa 2500 B.C. ** _

_ The moon was rising over the city of Uruk, lighting it in its destruction. _

_ War had never tarnished its walls, destroyed its streets, or broke down buildings like what happened that night. Surprisingly, there had been no clash between Sumerians and a foreign army. _

_ Commonly the fittest term, and the one the citizen would use to refer to that event as the years went by, was “brawl”. _

_ The echo of fists clashing against muscles and bones, and of bodies thrown against the walls until they tumbled down, suddenly stopped. The racket had been a theme for that whole day, starting from dawn. _

_ For the citizen of Uruk, who’d heard it grow in intensity, safe in the royal palace or the temple, it was both a surprising and awaited moment. _

_ They timidly poured on the city’s highest wall, where the fight had taken place. _

_ There they found two men covered in wounds, sat down, intent on looking at each other. They laughed and chatted, surrounded by a crowd of healers maids that bandaged them or anointed them with oils. _

_ Undisturbed, those two colosses who were able to make all the citizens go pale with their sheer presence had the same expression of two friends that chatted reminiscing childhood memories.  _

_ “So the gods created you to teach me a lesson and educate me to be a more fair king? Go figure!” snapped the man wearing a golden armour almost completely torn to pieces, before bursting out laughing, amused by his own statement. _

_ “As if I knew how a king should behave…” answered the other man, self-criticizing.  _

_ “I’ll admit that I didn’t notice how nonsensical this plan was until now.” He looked like a perfect copy of the other man in build, size, even in voice and face, were it not for his humble, ragged toga that distinguished him. _

_ “No.” The king lifted his hand to shush him, smiling. “I just noticed how wrong I’ve been until now too. If neither you nor I know how to be a fair king… that means we’ll learn together!” _

_ He laughed. Gilgamesh, the greatest king of the Sumerian empire and ruler of Mesopotamia laughed with joy in his heart for the first time in his life. _

_ Enkidu bowed his head reverently, sensing for the first time something he couldn’t have learned from animals. _

_ -Not like a lion towards the pack leader… my feelings for this man are something completely different from that. It’s affection, love, friendship, the most positive thing a man or an animal can experience in their heart…- _

_ Born to be rivals, the two giants became comrades-in-arms and brothers at nightfall. _

_ Years went by, only to make Enkidu and Gilgamesh go back to being covered in blood, just like the first time they met. _

_ “This was the hardest battle of my life!” The golden king laid against the side of the mountain, untying his heavy armour that fell to the ground with a rumble. The roar echoed in the void: where once was a forest, now was an empty valley deprived of trees and greenery. _

_ “And it was all for your folk. Would you have ever said it?” tiredly sighing, Enkidu slid down on the ground next to him, with a taunting smile. _

_ His friend smiled, sitting next to him as he caught his breath. _

_ Before them, sat with their backs against the Mountain of the Gods, were the ruins of the Cedar Forest. Trees on trees, stocked in such a high quantity that they formed a chain that got lost in the horizon, were the only proof that great forest ever existed. _

_ On the other side, a monstrous, decapitated corpse laid in a liquified crater, where the stone had melted in a black puddle. _

_ Gilgamesh was satisfied, because their mission had been carried out and Uruk wouldn’t suffer for the lack of wood anymore. _

_ “The gods shouldn’t have claimed the trees on the land we fought to have” he harshly asserted, looking up at the mountain that loomed over everything.  _

_ “Do not say that here. You could antagonize them, and it wouldn’t be a wise choice after what we’ve done.” _

_ “And what then? I’m ready to face a god, as I did just now with the guardian monster Khubaba, that now lies dead! We’ll do it together, Enkidu!” _

_ “Gilgamesh.” His companion didn’t indulge in his enthusiasm and remained serious. _

_ “We both are more divine than human: your mother is a goddess, and I am a direct child of theirs, created in image and likeness of man. We should avoid challenging the ones that created us… it’s thanks to them if we can carry on our mortal lives.” _

_ A worried tone lingered on the warrior’s tiredness, who could not escape its weight on his eyelids. _

_ Gilgamesh turned up his nose. “I got it: you’re tired, that’s why you’re spouting bullshit!” _

_ “Don’t look for an excuse to be right!” Enkidu argued, but then he decided he was too exhausted to quarrel. _

_ His companion put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him with a serene smile. _

_ “Let’s sleep.” No invitation would have sounded so sweet after the men’s legendary battle. _

_ They slipped in slumber like two babies, not caring about the shadow cast over their fates by the Mountain of the Gods. _

_ Not much time later, Gilgamesh woke up. Darkness swallowed the land, but the night was mild. _

_ His body didn’t hurt anymore, in spite of the wounds the demon had inflicted him. _

_ He couldn’t find an explanation for all of that, but he felt the urge to stand up. He parted from his friend’s shoulder, who was still in deep sleep, and walked towards the woodpiles. _

_ “King of Kings…” A feminine voice called him with playful reverence. _

_ The king found the figure of a woman, lurking in the shadows like a predator. Despite the dark, he was able to spot her instantly because of the mysterious bright aura she emanated. _

_ Gilgamesh was the son of the goddess Ninsun, so he’d always been able to identify what belonged to the human world and what to the gods. Even though he rarely went to the temples or paid reverence to the gods, he recognized Ishtar nonetheless. _

_ The goddess of love stared at him with greedy bright eyes, as if she wanted to capture him at any moment. _

_ The hero of his folk didn’t back off one step and stayed still and on guard instead. The thought of putting his hand on the sword handle, even just to provoke the goddess, grazed his mind for a second. _

_ Luckily, in such a tense situation Enkidu’s warning haunted him. _

_ -Man, what a meddler!- he mentally cursed him, and opted for a less offensive approach. _

_ “Please. Talk.” _

_ “Both humans and gods recognize you as the King of Kings, you must be flattered.” The goddess’s words were veiled with courtesy, but to the king they sounded vaguely dangerous. _

_ “Soon on this mountain the Divine Council will be held, and we would be honored by your presence. We’d like you to permanently join us.” _

_ “Forever… among the gods? To do that, I’d have to become a god myself.” Obviously Gilgamesh understood that was the point the goddess wanted to lead him to, and he saw her smile delightedly. _

_ “Sure, you’d finally be a god! And the way to achieve that is… I should take you as my spouse” Ishtar revealed, and at that point the king could’ve sworn he saw her irradiate light like a star. _

_ A human being could never express happiness that way. The feelings of a god were undoubtedly something more powerful. _

_ “Spouse…” the ruler repeated, bowing his head. _

_ “Exactly! I’ll admit it’s always been a wish of mine, ever since I saw you grow up to be the strongest and most powerful man known in these steppes, from one river to the other. Trust my words, I know every woman in Mesopotamia desires you and is willing to kill to lay in your bed… but I want you all for myself! Only the goddess of love could love a king of your rank…” _

_ “I decline.” Gilgamesh harshly interrupted her, not caring about her words anymore. _

_ Ishtar stopped abruptly, submitted as well as surprised by the man’s authority. _

_ “The reason is simple” he started to explain, opening his mouth in his renowned smile. “If I became a god, I’d be forced to live far from humans I decided to fight for. Every adventure, every risk, and every obstacle I have to face in order to make my folk happier and happier… I don’t want to miss all of this.” _

_ That being said the ruler turned his back on the goddess, walking away from her with ease. _

_ “Let’s go Enkidu, we’ve rested enough” he said apparently to no one. But his friend, until then hidden behind a woodpile, came out of hiding with an indecipherable expression on his face. _

_ He received a pat on the shoulder from his friend while he was getting down to work to transport the wood to the city, but his attention was elsewhere. With the tail of his eye, he witnessed the last moments before the goddess Ishtar disappeared. _

_ The feelings of a god are truly more powerful than those of a human: he would’ve never forgotten a face as deformed by hatred as that, as long as he’d be alive.  _

_ “We have to stop these two humans! Their pride offends us gods, and it’s our duty to punish them!” Furious beyond any limit, Ishtar punched her fists on the table.  _

_ One would have never expected to find the goddess of passion in that state: her hair whipped the air like snakes, revealing of her face only the bloodshot eyes. _

_ “They aren’t exactly two humans.” An, god of the sky and president of that assembly, talked with an apathetic voice. Of all the deities gathered on top of that mountain, he surely was the most inscrutable, just like the sky itself. _

_ “Gilgamesh is the son of Ninsun, my daughter, while Enkidu is a collective creation of ours. Are you saying my nephew and my creation are… humans?” _

_ The god’s serious glance released an invisible pressure on Ishtar, pressing her down on her seat and making silence fall in the room. _

_ “N-no… but…” the goddess stuttered, trembling in fear but not totally repressed in her hatred. _

_ “One thing is undeniable: Gilgamesh and Enkidu have killed the guardian Khubaba” the god Enlil stood up suddenly. _

_ The god of tempest showed a wrath far more rooted than Ishtar’s, and for that, he was able to withstand An’s gaze. _

_ “I myself had given Khubaba the duty of protecting the Cedar Forest. And the Cedar Forest is.. or better, was, the most beautiful forest that surrounded this home of ours… before the two of them destroyed it.” _

_ At that point Enlil placed his index and middle finger on the table: “Gilgamesh and Enkidu are guilty of having killed Khubaba and destroyed our forest, only to bring more wood to their city! To me, these proofs seem more than sufficient for an accusation of arrogance!” _

_ Arrogance: a word the Greeks would later call “hubris”, becoming the symbol of conflict between man and god. _

_ While man accuses god of being too cruel towards his folk, he fights nail and tooth to conquer a glimpse of freedom and power, being then judged by the deities as prideful and irreverent. The people of the Fertile Crescent had been living in that vicious circle for a long time without even noticing. _

_ Ishtar smiled secretly, continuing to pretend to have calmed down. Enlil’s support was useful to her for the sentence she’d give to the two humans she hated the most. _

_ “It’s good” An then answered, relaxing his shoulders against the seat. “Two accusations are tolerated, with regard to Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s nature. At the third, you are free to intervene, judging them guilty and punishing them however you like.” _

_ Some time later Mesopotamia, made strong by the magnificent wood of divine cedars, lost all its peace and tranquility. _

_ The fields were tinged with the blood of innocent farmers, cities were wiped out as by a flood, and men only prayed in desperation. _

_ Judgement had arrived, they said. Wondering what they’d done to deserve that divine punishment, the weak trembled. Yet, two men didn’t bow down. _

_ Alerted by the people’s cries, they searched for the origin of all that death and destruction. They hunted the terror for days, travelling among ruins and finding survivors who had lost a home, and maybe a family. _

_ When they found the cause, even if the enemy seemed unwinnable, they fought fearlessly. _

_ “We’ve put the squeeze on it, Gilgamesh!” Enkidu shouted, mangling his vocal cords as well as any other torn and bleeding muscle in his body. _

_ The king of Uruk didn’t answer, as he was too focused on the beast. _

_ The Heavenly Bull, chased down to the bottom of a basin that had been dried by the greatest flood Mesopotamia had ever seen, pawed and mooed, making the earth quake. Its cry sounded like a hellish howl, maybe directed to the gods, his masters. _

_ Gilgamesh had unsheathed his sword, close to the animal in a tentative of hurting its legs. If only he could put an end to the charges that had been terrifying his folk for months, it would be short-lived.  _

_ Enkidu found himself staring at the massive back of his ruler. They were almost identical in appearance, but looking at his friend’s back he always seemed a little bigger to him. _

_ His body seemed to eclipse the sun when he walked in front of him, and even when he was behind him, his shadow swallowed him like that of a tower. _

_ Even though they were equals in their strength and relationship, it wasn’t hard to understand why the people always cheered for Gilgamesh as the hero of their folk. That man was capable of irradiating greatness and majesty like a god, but was able to laugh, cry and get angry like a human, shamelessly. _

_ -The most human god of all.- Enkidu formulated a title that would have been fit for him too, but he didn’t have the time to think about that. _

_ “Enkidu!”  _

_ Gilgamesh’s yell already echoed in the air when the Heavenly Bull, animated by unthinkable heat, trampled him with a charge quicker than lightning.  _

_ The warrior was sent flying for miles, dragged by the immense animal. The two of them disappeared in the horizon, leaving the king of Uruk alone. _

_ Where he would have found the soothing presence of his friend, Gilgamesh only found a bloodstain. _

_ “Enkidu…” the king repeated, this time more quietly, as if he wanted to bring his companion back with that whine. _

_ Meanwhile, over five hundred miles away from there, Enkidu had regained consciousness. The shock of that point-blank hit had made him faint for about a second. _

_ The Heavenly Bull, divine beast chased for days on end, had never pulled off a charge as fast as that until then. Enkidu couldn’t have known that, but the speed the animal had reached could easily top any bullet invented until 2000 A.D. _

_ -He’s never been so fast before! He hid its true force all along!- the warrior thought, feeling his body being used to fend the air with such a strength it created a void on their path. _

_ The pain had barely reached him when he realized he had two shard horns planted in his chest, through the scaled armour of gold and stone. His divine muscles weren’t enough of a defense, and despite his weight he’d been lifted about six feet off the ground by that mastodonic creature. _

_ He saw his red eyes, crueler than those of any human soldier. He recognized a kind of hate that was unparalleled among humans: the gods’. _

_ Ishtar’s gaze popped up in his mind like a lightning bolt in a dark sky. The goddess’s revenge had waited for the most profitable moment to punish them. _

_ -Gilgamesh!- _

_ He dug both of his thumbs in the Heavenly Bull’s orbs, while with the remaining fingers he grasped its skull tightly. He felt it groan and foam in pain, but  _

_ In the divine creation that had lived among humans, a protective instinct was born for the first time: towards his kind, the poor, the innocent, and his greatest friend. No sound was ever louder than the one Enkidu produced by planting his feet in the soil. The earth quivered like an earthquake, and the bull was lifted in the air by two powerful arms. _

_ Enkidu stepped forward. _

_ “If this is my punishment, then fine! I’ll accept it!” _

_ Quicker than lightning, the man charged, retracing the path drawn for several miles as he dragged the beast like a plough. _

_ “BUT I CANNOT ACCEPT THAT THE GODS PLAY WITH HUMANS AS THEY PLEASE!” _

_ The warrior’s shout crossed all of Mesopotamia, reaching the ones who prayed in vain for their safety and the ones who already counted themselves victims of divine judgement. It also reached Gilgamesh, the greatest king to ever live, who saw his best friend and comrade-in-arms going towards him at superhuman speed. _

_ Arrived in front of the hero, Enkidu lifted a foot off the ground to hit the Heavenly Bull with a kick. The animal, long dead, was thrown in the air like a ball of cloth, reaching the sky that had birthed it. _

_ In a duel that had lasted just a bunch of seconds, the threat to humanity had been eliminated. _

_ Gilgamesh looked at his friend, amazed. He was so confused that it took him some time to notice the deadly wounds on his chest. “ Enkidu !” he exclaimed horrified, running to help him. _

_ The warrior dropped in his arms, but not before putting a hand on his shoulder in a brotherly gesture. _

_ “Your plan was good, like always…sorry if I wanted to be eccentric and solve it my way” he whispered in his ears as a rivulet of blood trickled down his chin. The Sumerian king’s arms surrounded him in a warm embrace. _

_ _

_ Some hours later, Gilgamesh had reached the room in the royal palace where Enkidu was resting, after an infinite session of medications. the best doctors of the Land Between Rivers had been called to court with a readiness that had never been seen before, to the notice that one of the heroes who’d been able to save them from the plague of the Heavenly Bull had been mortally wounded. _

_ The king saw his friend laying down on a bed, with a balcony in front of him that opened onto the beautiful main street. The light of the torches boldly shone in the dark, along with the people celebrating in their homes or in the squares. _

_ They needed to be grateful to who had fought for them, giving up their life in order to save them. _

_ Gilgamesh didn’t want to celebrate yet another victory. No wine and no banquet would have been good without his most loyal companion sat next to him. _

_ The world could gleefully bellow as much as it wanted, but he would remain silent until he would be able to hug Enkidu again. He leaned against the balcony, bowing his head under the shining moon _

_ He prayed. _

_ _

_ At that moment Enkidu opened his eyes, finding no light to soothe him after that long slumber. He noticed he was still dreaming, confined in a dark world in his own mind. _

_ “Where… ?” he was about to ask, when he was answered by a voice he would have never expected. _

_ “Great Enkidu. Welcome!!” That much disgust in a few words was a clear manifestation of hatred for the warrior. _

_ The goddess Ishtar appeared with so much light to parallel a star, lighting up the surrounding empty space. When her feet touched the unfathomable floor, waves spread in every direction. _

_ “Welcome to the Divine Council...” Her cruel smile was far worse than the Heavenly Bull for Enkidu. _

_ “We are asking you to choose who to sacrifice for mankind’s salvation.  _ _ Yourself… or Gilgamesh?” _


	4. Fame and Shame (Final)

** Chapter 4: Fame and Shame (Final) **

“GET UP, ENKIDU!”

The Valhalla Arena was still full of human cheers when a shout was able to drown out every voice. Humans and gods instantly shushed, paying attention to a certain section of the grandstands.

“You can’t lose!”

A giant in golden armour stood tall on the balustrade, his hands pressed against the massive stone parapet. However, not even stone could resist his fingers, that had penetrated it with monstrous strength as if it were butter.

“If you give up now, what will become of the Sumerians' pride?!” His shout echoed in the whole arena.

On mankind's side, someone who couldn't recognize that person turned to the aforementioned folk.

“What is that God saying? If Enkidu doesn't lose, not only the Sumerians, but humanity as a whole would resent it.”

The answer wasn't delivered through voice, but rather through tears. Manly tears filled with sadness, as well as nostalgia, had begun to pour down from the eyes of the Sumerian warriors as soon as that being had made his entrance.

“He isn't just a god…” A warrior let slip, exhaling a rattle with a broken voice. “He is… our king…”

Gilgamesh, the Sumerian king of the legends, emanated such an overwhelming aura that it pushed away every deity that was too close to him. His presence, in fact, seemed to grow bigger and bigger every second, invading the grandstands with terror and awe.

“You’re talking about your folk’s pride in such a situation?! Traitor of our people!” Hidden behind her supporters, the goddess Ishtar hissed like an angry snake, revealing all of her rage to the beautiful king.

He stopped at the sound of those words. Every vital function of his seemed to have stopped, along with time itself. In silence and calm, his gigantic back turned on the gods conveyed nothing more than sheer terror. A silent wrath, ready to be unleashed, and that the goddess immediately repented having provoked. Even though she’d already started shivering, Gilgamesh’s reaction was completely unexpected. 

The blond slightly turned his head towards her, showing a satisfied smile and two confident eyes.

With the voice of someone who had looked clearly into the future, he said: “I cheer neither for mankind nor for the gods. I only cheer for Enkidu!”

“What a fool…” An annoyed sigh rose from Enkidu’s bloody body, still immersed in dust and pressed against the ground.

His voice was blank as always, but a layer of annoyance animated it. Unlike before, that controlled anger wasn’t expressed through a frown.

Masutatsu Oyama had to restrain himself in his astonished reaction, but if he could, his jaw would have dropped to the ground in confusion.

The beast warrior was getting back up from the ground, showing all his pain and fatigue in the movements of his bones, but showing an amused smirk nonetheless.

“What a fool…” he repeated. “Gilgamesh wouldn’t have spared me his rigamarole not even in a deadly battle. How could I be so deluded to think I could save myself from that loud, stubborn guy?”

“Incredible!! Enkidu is getting back up with his own horn lodged in the chest, after being knocked down by the world’s strongest martial artist!” The two announcers fully depicted the unbelievable event, so that even the incredulous could realize what was happening.

“Did the arrival of the Ruler of Ur, Gilgamesh, really give his companion all the necessary strength to keep on fighting?

As soon as he heard his name being called, Gilgamesh loudly yelled, beating his fists against the armour and laughing coarsely.

“Self-centered” Enkidu commented with cold friendliness, eyeing his friend up there.

“Stop it!”

A voice in front of him drew back his attention, wiping the smile off his face.

He found the karateka’s eyes, but with a deformed mask of horrendous wrath that made him unrecognizable. “Stop getting distracted! Do you understand what this bout means?!”

Every one of Masutatsu’s muscles contracted, to the point where even his broken leg sprinkled blood like a squeezed cloth. He was indifferent to the excruciating pain he was feeling and raised his guard.

“Pardon me…” Going back to being serious, Enkidu seemed to respect the reasons that brought that man to talk to him like that. After sliding the horn out of his chest like it was nothing, he held a low pose, his arms stretched forward.

“I am much more involved than you believe. For the first time, I feel motivated to do my best!”

Whatever he said, the sound of his words was left behind: the speed of sound couldn’t keep up with the superhuman sprint that had just been made.

Going back in with the Heavenly Bull’s Charge, Enkidu lunged at his opponent to use his only horn as a weapon.

Surprisingly, the martial artist hadn’t been blinded once again by anger, so he didn’t close his eyes not even for a moment. His all-embracing vision had managed to register the Sumerian warrior’s every action: he saw his shiny eyes, his legs explode in the sprint and lastly the horn getting closer and closer.

He didn’t need to anticipate or foresee the attack, because all he had to do was eliminate the problem at its root. Grabbing Enkidu’s weapon with both of his hands, he rotated on his only leg to direct the charge elsewhere: in order to do that he had to parallel, even though only for a second, the speed of the Heavenly Bull’s Charge.

With his instant projection, executed in less than the blink of an eye, he threw the hero against the wall. 

The human crowd was in raptures.

“This! This is the true way of martial arts!” Adramelech blustered, meeting the humans’ agreement, who worshipped and believed in the strength only they could reach.

“Hits, parries, projections… a shapeless body, like water, able to adapt to any situation.” Bruce Lee smiled with all the joy that was in his heart, finally fulfilling his desire to witness an unrepeatable performance.

Mas Oyama’s body was at the same time as hard as stone, anchored to the ground by his only heel that had dug a four-inch groove in the stone, and as free as air: every single cell of his being could just start floating in the sky, because that was how he felt.

An unparalleled thrill reached his brain.

-This… is control.- In his hands, that could clench in offense and slide in defense, he brandished his own destiny.

Years of abuse, confined in the atrocity of his impure body, had crushed him and forced him to think there was no remedy to a life like that. But now, in a desperate fight for life, he’d found hope of finding such a revelation.

“A-Attention! It doesn’t end here!” St. Peter’s shout drew everyone’s attention.

At the moment when Enkidu had been thrown against the wall, he didn’t crash against it at the mercy of Mas Oyama’s attack. On the contrary, as soon as he’d impacted on it with his back, he’d concentrated all of his herculean strength in the lower back to have momentum.

What he’d done was essentially bounce off the wall at incredible speed, amplifying it with newly found force.

The Ragnarok Arena quivered.

Enkidu had never seen defeat. Not with the eyes that had met the trusting gaze of his companion Gilgamesh. All he’d done was plan a necessary evolution to annihilate his foe. Being born again and conquering new limits, the Heavenly Bull’s Charge became unparalleled.

Masutatsu didn’t even notice he’d been hit until the hero’s horn had pierced through him from side to side. He widened his eyes in surprise, and only then he felt the air pressure on his skin.

A far echo reached him even at that speed.

-The most powerful weapon is the explosion. Despite what is believed, an explosion is something absolutely natural, therefore it can be found in nature, especially in living beings. The brain can cause an explosion, a muscle can cause an explosion... even a breath, a glance, a thought… all of this can explode!-

Even Mas Oyama, at the moment he’d been hit, didn’t think about the blow he’d received, nor about the deadly wound he got: every one of his mental and physical abilities directed at answering that blow he’d predicted long ago.

His mind vibrated, warmed up, and exploded. His eyes reflected the memory of the snow on Mount Minobu, similar to the kamikaze airplanes that rained down to destroy his youthful dream.

As such, his fist rained down and clashed with explosive strength against Enkidu’s nape, which was close enough because the horn had penetrated him up to the base.

The Sumerian warrior was so heated up in the charge that he didn’t even realize the moment he’d been hit.

Maybe he first saw the blood, and then he noticed how his throat had been slashed from the inside by a deflagration as invisible as destructive. Nonetheless, the realization of what had been done to him was enough to make him feel his strength weaken in every single muscle of his body.

The charge abruptly stopped, with the warrior’s legs paralyzed by a treacherous thought that had originated in his mind: terror.

It was right then that Masutatsu, landing on the ground with his steady leg, repeated the attack with a knife-hand strike and severed Enkidu’s last horn.

“That punch…” The gods murmured, amazed, looking at each other to find an answer to all their questions.

“That punch…” repeated the loyal followers of Kyokushin karate, tightening their belts beneath their chest with pride.

“Masutatsu Oyama’s Bodhisattva Fist!! The final technique that can’t be parried by anything in the world! Everything it comes into contact with, be it a hand to deflect the attack, will inevitably explode because of its unfathomable power!” 

Quickly everyone came to know that legendary move, that had floored a god even though, to an amateur eye, it looked like a normal punch. Undoubtedly, every blow that could knock down a god deserved a recognition worthy of its deed.

Many months had passed since the training on the mountain, and the first time Masutatsu came back in contact with civilization, he was caught by a sound he hadn’t heard for a long time: punches, kicks, and kiai’s, marked rhythmically by strict martial training.

Revitalized by that energy, he entered the karate dojo. As soon as he made his entrance, all those present turned to him: he wore a gi destroyed by the elements, by mud, and almost fully black with dried blood. Even his physical appearance, result of extreme survival, made him creepy like a wild demon.

His smile was of no use, as the dojo master readily approached him.

“I don’t know who you want to fool, but get out of here! Karate is a serious business!” He strictly pointed at the door, but he didn’t even turn around to look at it.

“I know, I am very grateful to karate for what it’s done to me.”

“And what has it done to you?!” the man grunted, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him away. “Make you look like a wre-?!”

No bystander understood why the master had immobilized, but if they could have used his eyes for that exact moment, they would have seen something incredible.

The mad had seen the hand that touched the man explode from the inside, then that same catastrophic strength had gone up to his arm, proceeding in the destruction of his body in the blink of an eye. But none of that happened.

“No, this is what karate has done to me” Masutatsu then answered, proving than not more than a second had passed since the last time the other man had spoken. Nonetheless, in such a short time span, he’d understood all.

The other man had realized he was in front of one of the strongest masters, and that the deadly energy his body radiated had been able to spare him with the delicacy of a Buddha’s hand. 

“OSU!” The karateka in the arena tightened his belt too, exhaling all the air he’d held in his lungs with a cry. While doing it, a spray of blood came out of his mouth: he still had the opponent’s horn stabbed through his chest, and even with all the cheers that came from around and above him, nothing could save him from death.

“I don’t have much time left… I’d say about a minute. Why don’t we end the bout, so the winner can be saved from death?” With a playful and pressing tone, he turned to his opponent’s body, laid on the ground.

Incredibly, for the third time Enkidu’s hand was used to lift his mastodonic foe off the ground.

This time the beast-man was more than simply injured: from what was left of his throat splurted a red waterfall that had colored his chest with a perfect stripe.

He couldn’t talk, but he bent his blood-stained lips in a smile.

With extreme speed he raised his arm forward, grasping the mortal’s head in an iron clench.

The Japanese felt his skull being squeezed against every prediction, and soon his eyes swelled outwards, about to be shot out of his head. Enkidu’s strength was so much that he was able to lift him off the ground like a mannequin despite his wound. Because of his position, and his opponent’s arm, almost three times his, that kept the distance, Masutatsu realized he couldn’t reach any vital point in any way.

But once again his thought had abstracted themselves from the real world, bringing him away from pain and suffering, as well as from defeat. Like in an angelic choir, he felt himself being surrounded by all the glories that had filled his life with ephemeral happiness.

-What I want to feel again… and again… and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again-”

Challenging every prediction, he slid Enkidu’s horn out of his chest at the moment when he breathed in all the air he could.

Subsequently he placed it in front of him, and after contacting his free hand in a fist, he closed his eyes

The air exploded out of his lungs: -… is victory!-

“Bodhisattva Fist!”

As in maximum zen liberation, every force of his was addressed and emitted, spreading towards Enkidu to bind him in that universal bond of power.

The punch shot the cut horn, turning it into a missile that impaled the Sumerian beast man’s face. It threw him backward, snatching him off the ground in a takeoff quicker than any Heavenly Bull’s Charge.

The fly stopped only when the Ragnarok arena wall said so, and so the gods’ vanguard’s body stayed there, suspended.

A giant corpse hung by the head and dripping with blood like a hooked pig.

That horrid and pitiful sight gave goosebumps to every god, and any intention to pray left the humans’ astonished faces.

All they had to believe in was right in front of them, and it was called mankind’s strength.

Gilgamesh was traumatized.

It wasn't his friend's brutal death that petrified him like that, but the liberating smile he'd caught on his face one second before he was defeated.

The Sumerian King, who had become a god along with the friend he'd just lost, couldn't understand all that happiness on mankind's side, nor did he sense the gods' defeat as his.

At that moment he was neither a god nod a human: he only knew that he'd lost Enkidu forever.

Before one of the announcers could open their mouths, he jumped into the arena in a furious rampage.

"YOU! YOU DAMN BASTARD!!” Tears of blood erupted from his eyes, allies of a sorrow only he could comprehend.

Up above, up high, among the gods of her Pantheon, Ishtar grinned, satisfied with the show.

No one could fathom what Gilgamesh would have done to Masutatsu, if only an order hadn't been readily given to a figure lurking in the shadows.

“Stop him.”

Countless chains imprisoned the giant before he could even graze the fighting grounds, blocking him mid-air in an iron cocoon.

Gilgamesh's efforts didn't accomplish anything, and his furious curses accompanied the bystanders' gasps.

With a cold and detached voice, the one who had imprisoned him spoke: “No stranger can interfere with the bouts.”

Silver hair fell upon a humanoid face coated with blue-ish fur, covering one of his shiny iron eyes. The figure wore a black suit, torn by claw marks and bites, and covered on the shoulders by a scarf of chains, where the laces used to restrain the Sumerian had originated from.

The indestructible chain Gleipnir could belong to only one being, and the Nordic gods knew it well: therefore they immediately recognized Fenrir, in the role of Security Chief of the Ragnarok Tournament.

The silver Wolf disappeared dragging the cocoon along with him, leaving the arena to its only deserved protagonist.

“And this is how… humanity scores its first… VICTORY!!”

The presenters' voices were easily overwhelmed by mankind's shouts, finally convinced the true and only hope of escaping extinction stood in front of them.

“The winner is Masutatsu Oyama, the Divine Hand!”

The martial artist had fallen to his knees. A cough forced him to vomit blood and bile, painting his smile a bleak red.

-I won't tread the Earth anymore, but… at least I'm grateful for having lived a life worthy of one satisfaction: mankind's victory.-

Humanity's section saw the fighter being brought away, and among general celebrations a particular figure walked unbothered towards a hidden hallway.

Separated from Phobetor, the god of nightmares, and Ammit the devourer beast, the god who looked like a boy walked a long path alone before stopping.

From the shadows emerged Ishtar, with a cryptic smile on her face.

“Masutatsu Oyama spent three years in hermitage to atone for his faults and prepare himself to conduct a sinless life... On the other side Enkidu, when I granted him the choice of a punishment, preferred death.”

“Your revenge wasn't quite complete this way, was it?” the mysterious god interrupted her, serious and untouched. “You didn't feel like you'd fully won, this is why you offered him as the first loser instead of Gilgamesh.”

The goddess of beauty nodded in ecstasy and whipped the air with her tongue until she licked most of her face.

“Wonderful! He and Gilgamesh became gods thanks to our divine mercy… but now that he's been killed in the Ragnarok, his soul is forever lost! Foreveeer!”

In complete drunkenness, almost surrounded by an erotic charge, Ishtar had become crazy with pleasure. Nothing and no one could have recognized her as a goddess instead of a demon, had they seen her in that state.

“It's exactly like this. Must have been a great deal for you, wasn't it, Ishtar?”

Suddenly the stone the hallway was made of started transforming, becoming pliable like jelly but at the same time liquid like water. Swirling and decomposing, soon it reassembled in a figure that could instill sheer horror in the Sumerian goddess.

“Well… please, go on and talk about this deal!”

“Gaia!” Ishtar screeched, recognizing Mother Earth and her welcoming smile. In a normal situation, she would have conveyed safety and peace, but now it only looked like she was predicting a tremendous fate.

“Y-You knew everything?” Shivering, she desperately tried to back off.

“It was quite predictable” the male figure answered for her, staying aside and remaining strangely composed despite the goddess’s appearance.

She looked at him, and her smile faded out slightly: it was now blatant how a barely restrained, ruthless wrath hid behind her apparently kind ways.

“Doesn’t this bother you? Anyway, you were talking about the first loser that was offered to you… Enkidu was undoubtedly more disadvantaged than Gilgamesh, or than any immortal Sumerian god... nonetheless, the man couldn’t have won without some kind of help. You used a Sephirot’s power, right? Should I expect more?”

He stayed silent.

Gaia at that point widened her eyes, and even if imperceptibly, her face was lit with surprise:

-Sly- she thought, going back to fully smiling. -Obviously he can’t rig the bouts, but he makes the gods he made a deal with believe that he can… in this way, he’s gaining their trust and bringing more and more gods on his side. But of what use are they to him? A takeover, perhaps?-

“Who else have you made a deal with? How many have colluded with you?” Deciding not to reveal what she’d discovered, she played his game and urged that delightful game of tension.

She received no direct answer: the god simply turned his back on her and took his leave with a gesture of the hand.

“It seems I was wrong...” The echo of his words resonated in the hallway. “It wasn’t so blatant that you knew everything.”

Meanwhile on the outside, leaned out of the balcony looked on the arena still marked by the fight, the old scribe Sîn-lēqi-unninni wasn’t taking part in any celebration.

His companions and the Sumerian warriors had left the tears behind and made room for drinking and celebrating according to the tradition of their time, nonetheless he was reluctant to all of that.

He remembered the ancient days of his youth, when he dedicated days and days to collect all the legends about a true hero: king Gilgamesh. At the time he marveled at how no one before him had wished to collect all of his deeds in a written work, and so he took it upon himself to do it

In this way he convinced himself he was living the Sumerian king’s epic adventures with his comrade Enkidu, as if he could have fought on their sides against monsters, challenging the gods’ vexations and looking for immortality, or the secret to true strength.

That day, in that day so distant from his time, he’d realized a truth that was both bitter and sweet.

“Gilgamesh and Enkidu never stopped fighting, and as much as I can write a second Epic, or a thousand more… I will never be able to understand, let alone express, what only they knew. No one ever will.”

Gods against humans. Once again history repeats itself, but his had ended.

He abandoned the last tablet forever, but not before having engraved “the end” on the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> This is the end of the first fight, and the victory goes to humanity!   
> Friendly reminder that this the story's official Discord server: https://discord.gg/tTeajYD


	5. Popular Monster

** **

  
**Chapter 5: Popular Monster**

Almost all of the gods’ vanguards selected for the Ragnarok had been called inside of a room: nine representatives from the most disparate pantheons, the most diverse and uncooperative thing one could ever imagine.

Every one of them sat on their own on the numerous armchairs, nervously keeping an eye on the time. Some prominent figures stick out due to their eccentricity: 

Fenrir, the silver-haired wolf, simply stood in a corner, his face hidden behind the scarf of chains he wore wrapped around his neck; a god snored on the couch, his mouth wide open, and a goddess looked at the rainy sky out of the window with her chin on her fist.

On the other hand, on a giant perch, a small god from features of a kid was hanging upside down, incessantly doing crunches: “One, two! One, two! Oof! Oof! Oh, come on, when can I go play?!” he yelled from time to time.

“Play? Play?!” Upon hearing him, the goddess turned to him and reprimanded him with a grim look. Actually, only the left half of her face was frowned, while the right one had an eye that overflowed with tears: “Don’t you realize a god has died? How tragic!”

“You piss me off so much!” shouted the goddess Hel’s left half, lady of the underworld in the Nordic pantheon.

The kid didn’t utter any more words, staring at her with a serious yet inscrutable gaze. “I don’t get it” he said in the end, fueling the goddess’s rage as well as her tears.

Luckily at that point a staff member entered the room, catching everyone’s attention.

“Dear representatives, I just wanted to warn you that the next bout will begin shortly. Has it already been recommended that you choose who will take the field?”

Everyone shook their heads at him, so the employee started breaking into a cold sweat. “Ehm... sorry, is it too much if I ask you to hurry? I wouldn’t want that…”

They’d already stopped listening to him: the deities were coldly glancing at each other, imbued with power and brimming supremacy.

“Wait a minute!” a voice blurted out, interrupting them. A figure entered the room, shoving the staff member aside. When he tried to complain, he raised his head and the voice died in his throat when he recognized who that was: “M-Mr. Tyr?!” 

Tyr, the Nordic god of war, wore a cape that covered him up to the ankles, but his sword was on his back, in plain sight. His grim gaze flew over each god, then stopping on one in particular: “It’s him! He’s the privileged bastard I can’t stand!”

His finger was pointed towards Fenrir, who frowned, becoming gloomy.

“Just because he’s from security, and maybe he did some off-the-books favours to the other gods, he got this place he doesn’t deserve! You’re not even a god!”

An acquaintance of his, the goddess Hel, interrupted the furious god of war: “Premising that I never had to deal with Fenrir…” she said, crying with her right side, “you’re spouting a lot of bullshit, Tyr!”

Hearing her left side, the god flinched. “Enkidu wasn’t a god too! And if that’s the case, neither are those three that are not here! So what the fuck are you talking about, huh?!”

Demonstrating great bravery, the staff member forced one of his best smiles and tried to say: “Mr. Tyr, can I advise that you talk to a superior about this matter? Right now we urgently need to select the next fighter, and…”

“I’ll go” Tyr snapped. In his eyes burned the shame he had to endure because of the wolf, and he unsheathed the sword with his hand. While doing so, he moved his cape and uncovered his right side: as everyone could see, instead of an arm there was only a bandaged stump.

“I have a bone to pick with Fenrir! Therefore I challenge you, and I’ll walk on stage holding your head.”

The chief of security shrugged, following the god outside to settle their score.

At that moment the staff member’s earpiece rang: “Oh! I’m afraid we don’t have time to wait for this… kerfuffle. Who wants to take the field now?”

For a matter of utter coincidence, right when he stopped talking the god who was comfortably sleeping on the couch slipped, falling face on the floor. “Ouch!”

“Me? Did he say me? Very well!” It was meticulously noted on a register. “Then come with me, please.”

The deity, figuring the situation out, got up from the floor with an aching face. “Huh? Huuuh?!” he yelled, confused, while the other one grabbed his arm and tried to drag him outside. “It’s a mistake, dude! I… I was sleeping so well, and…”

Fenrir walked through the door, and his sight alone was enough to surprise all the bystanders. His renowned silver hair was stained with dark blood, as well as part of his face and all of his suit. However, the point that was more soaked with that red vital liquid was undoubtedly his chain, which he was wrapping around his neck like a scarf.

-What?! He’s already done?!- internally screamed the one who wasn’t involved in that affair. Peeking from the door, he saw with horror the bloody mush that just a bunch of seconds before had been the god of war Tyr.

-He killed him… he killed him.- He wanted to throw up. -Sure… after all, when Fenrir tore Tyr’s arm off he was imprisoned and weak, so how could he give him one single chance of victory when he’s at his full power?-

Meanwhile, when Fenrir realized what was happening, he asked the god: “So do you want to go?” The tone he pronounced those words with was so frosty and blunt it made the staff member’s blood freeze. When he looked up, he expected anyone under Fenrir’s inquisitive gaze to die of fright, but he didn’t find anything like that.

The god who’d been chosen was as calm and serene as ever. “Actually no, but this guy says there’s no time and won’t listen to reason. Do you wanna go?”

“No, it seems fair not to waste our time.”

“Nasty…” The two of them had talked as if it were a normal situation. With the same indifference, the god chosen as the second representative walked down the hallway, carefully avoiding Tyr’s carcass.

Not too far from there, in the rooms reserved to the gods, one of the organizers was going through a moment of great stress.

The goddess Ptah had just started to unwind after the exhausting match she was forced to watch. So much violence and tension weren’t good for her beauty, or so she thought: that’s why she asked a great number of masseuses to take care of her, washing her hair, doing her make-up, and so on.

But right when, with a towel still wrapped around her head, she was enjoying a relaxing massage, she’d seen the chubby face of an acquaintance of her peep at the door.

“Ammit…” she annoyedly murmured, seeing the devourer beast smile at her, staying hidden in his spot.

“Are you aware that, since Gaia found out that the god you hang out with has a net of traitors that want to make humanity win, your clique is at high risk?”

Ammit vigorously nodded.

“And are you aware that, if the wrong gods had you in their hands, they’d make you spit out your collaborators’ names by force?”

He nodded again.

“Of course you know… that’s why you came to me, right? And you’re staying hidden because… you want me to follow you, don’t you?” The goddess’s voice fell deeper and deeper in a pit of discomfort and suffering, but when Ammit nodded with a big smile for the third time, she felt the world crumble.

As soon as she got out of the room, she found, along with the judge of the Egyptian afterlife, the mysterious god everyone had been talking about since the Council from earlier.

“Hello, miss Ptah, I’m sorry for bothering you at this moment…” he tried to say, but was interrupted when the goddess from slim build, who towered two feet above him, shook her finger at him with a displeased expression.

“Hold on, hold on, hold on, buddy! You can call me miss as much as you want, but I don’t fall down at anyone’s feet!” At that outburst, the mysterious god looked at Ammit seeking for help, but he shrugged.

“Well, yeah… we wanted to invite you to know the next human fighter.”

“What? Have you gone crazy?! If a human saw a woman like me, he’d surely hyperventilate and drop dead on the spot because of my beauty! Besides, why should I care about a human?”

“Oh, well… this case concerns you, not for nothing it was Ammit who wanted to talk to you…”

Caught by curiosity, the goddess was convinced to follow the two of them. Fixing the towel on her head from time to time, she was careful not to be seen by any human while walking through the section of the colosseum that was reserved for them.

The march ended in front of a door with a curtain made of pearls and golden scales hung on many strings, like a shiny waterfall. Beyond the entrance, the three of them found themselves on a balcony the same colour as ivory, suspended on a giant hall that smelled fresh.

Beneath them was a swimming pool where flowers and water lilies floated: the bottom was a mosaic made of tiles that shined like the stars in the sky, representing a man’s face.

The goddess’s initial amazement ended when she saw something else floating in the water: female underwear.

Her face contorted in a wroth expression, and her two chaperones tensed like violin strings. However, inviting her to go down, they were welcomed by a melody, sung by a male voice.

Following it, they arrived at a waterfall that went down a wall, falling on a figure that sang so loudly his voice overwhelmed the water’s roar.

Ptah flinched, not being able to withdraw a high-pitched yell: the man was naked.

He abruptly turned around, exclaiming: “My son, it’s not what you think! I’ve started selling underwear lately and…” but when he recognized the two male gods, he relaxed. His face was the same one that was depicted almost everywhere in the room.

“How rude of me, and to think there’s even a maiden!” he laughed.

Ptah’s heart lost a beat: -Maiden?- That human’s voice was so deep and warm.

He grabbed a towel to cover himself from the waist down, then he walked towards the trio with a radiant smile.

“ Who do I have the pleasure of meeting, my friends?”

“Pt… Pta…” the goddess was already whispering but Ammit anticipated her before she revealed her true identity: “Ptarash!”

But when he heard that name, the man clenched his chest with a wail.

“Oh no!” Ptah exclaimed, scared. -I knew it! I knew a human would die because of me!-

But before she desperately burst out crying, the smile reappeared on his face: “It’s just that… when I heard such a graceful name, my heart couldn’t take it. You are a fatal beauty even in your name, dear Ptarash!” He took her chin in his fingers in a delicate caress.

The situation was so corny the mysterious god and Ammit glanced at each other with a disappointed knowing gaze: -She’ll never fall for it, right?-

But Ptah had been distracted by something she’d noticed: the man’s body, especially the arms and shoulders, were covered with scratches and round bruises. “Are you… hurt?”

The human was taken aback, but he quickly made up an excuse: “Eheh, yes… some time ago I defended some kids from a jackal attack…”

-She’ll never fall for it, riiight?!- the two gods thought again.

However Ptah’s eyes were already heart-shaped, blushed from head to toe: “Oooh, you’re so brave…”

“Okay… that’s enough” the mysterious god murmured, still stunned, interrupting that conversation with a lot of embarrassment.

“Are you ready for the next match?”

The man didn’t even have to change expression, and faced that reality with the same proud and thoughtless smile: “Of course!” Before bending down to gather his clothes, thrown at the edge of the pool, he sent Ptah a charming glance.

“We’ll meet again after my victory! I’m pleased to have breached in your heart and thoughts… my goddess.”

The stadium was in turmoil for the second bout. Especially the humans that, already tasting their next victory, yelled their vanguard’s name at the top of their lungs.

A young humanoid with the skin the same colour as stone didn’t take part in that agitation. Actually, looking closer, what covered his skin and gave him that skin tone was a layer of short and sparse fur, but thicker and similar to hair and beard around the face, like a mane.

He looked with his fiery eyes, but dull with excitement, at the end of the hallway towards the arena. He walked slowly, without hurry, making the big buddhist rosary he wore on his neck jingle, along with the smaller ones on his wrists, and the golden chaps that covered the lower part of his body. A yellow tail whipped the air, trying to cool down his face.

“Daaamn…” he whined, with a funny nasal voice fit for his monkey-like face.

He added, while scratching the inside of his navel with a claw: “Why did they have to pick me? Who cares about these humans…”

At the moment when he stepped in the sunlight, a roar coming from above his head caught him off guard, making him curse.

His scared face was immortalized in the sky, the very beginning of that bout’s filming.

“ _Whatashitt -_” The presenters’ screams drowned out his words.

“The second divine representative! A King even in Heaven, who fought to become what he is now and ripped immortality from the hands of the most skeptical gods…” Adramelech yelled.

“Not that his life was normal…” St. Peter grinned. “...for a monkey.”

“Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, we introduce you to the Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Son Goku)!!”

“The humans, upon seeing that homunculus who looked like a kid, but was covered in fur and had chaps a lot bigger than his size, first went mute… and then burst out laughing.

“And this is the gods’ fighter? What kind of joke is this?!”

All that mocking inevitably reached the monkey’s ears. He put his head between his shoulders and showed an annoyed grimace: “Same old story. Once the gods were scared of me, but I never had that much of a grip on humans.”

“Let’s introduce mankind’s side!” The voices from the speakers interrupted the laughter, announcing the most awaited moment in the match.

“I don’t know how many of you wondered, but the bizarre arena that will host today’s match has been chosen by the opponent on mankind’s side, as the winner of the last bout.”

At that moment all the spectators lowered their gaze, and Sun Wukong paid attention to the floor under his feet. It was soft, shiny in sunlight, and even his heavy and adorned sandals didn’t make any noise when he stepped on it.

-Sand- he observed, curious.

“A fighting ground that’s not unexpected at all for him! Yes, him! The one who’s known as The Great, and further nicknames aren’t enough to introduce him…”

“Second of his name: the most powerful, admired, known, and long-lived pharaoh that ever ruled Upper and Lower Egypt.”

Loudly rumbling, a wave of sand overflowed like a river in flood from the opposite entrance to Sun Wukong. Even the gods were left open-mouthed, and the presenters too, in fact they went silent.

Slowly, amidst the yellowish cloud that had reached the grandstands, a figure moved forward.

As tall as his opponent, but with hazelnut skin and tattoos that decorated his muscly arms and hips. At the center of his chest was a white cloth that partially covered his abs and was joint to a cape wrapped around his neck. Light-blue and green gems adorned his light golden armour, consisting of bracelets on his forearms and a pair of kneepads.

When the cloud scattered, an even brighter colour that covered the guy’s head up to the shoulders shined in the sun. It was his coppery hair, like a dawn of fire or the rarest flower in the desert.

The young man smiled, stretched his arms to the sky, and let the sunlight bathe him while the crowd cheered for him.

“Ramses II!!!”

The whole world then plumbed into silence.

The gazes of the only people standing in the arena had met, and particular sparks of energy in their eyes underlined the tension they started emanating simply in that first meeting.

Coming from the most different and far-apart cultures, none of them had heard about the other, and they undoubtedly had a completely different concept of life. However, at that moment, none of that mattered.

What really mattered was a result, and at the same time the question the fate of humanity orbited around: who would win?

“The Ragnarok begins!!” The speakers in the colosseum exploded with that roar, making the bystanders tighten their muscles to better prepare themselves.

Someone in particular, however, didn’t pay that same attention: “Thanks, thanks! I love you too!”

Ramses II, the Egyptian ruler, was facing the side of the grandstands that still hymned his name, and was sending flying kisses and winks to everyone.

In front of the gods’ and his opponent’s - who looked at him with arched eyebrows - bewilderment, he didn’t seem to care about the fight he was taking part in.

After about a minute he felt the urge to turn around, giving the monkey an innocent expression and a sincere smile.

“Sorry, am I bothering you?”

Surprised like he’d never been in his life by such behaviour, the other didn’t know what to say. Without thinking much about it he shook his head.

“Perfect! I’ll go on for another while then!” Ramses rapidly said, before resuming his work: “Thanks a lot! Maidens, you are wonderful, not me!”

The monkey noticed how he was fueling the crowd in its cheers, and how he was particularly appreciated by the female public.

-Wait a minute… why do women blush and wave in front of him, but do nothing for me?- he asked himself suddenly, seized with jealousy.

Turning around he only saw the gods’ tribunes, silent and astonished at that show. Turning back to mankind’s side he barely recognized his opponent, as he’d been covered in a matter of seconds by what looked like bras of all sizes and kinds, along with other scandalous pieces of underwear.

-Whaaat?!- the monkey internally screamed, as red as a tomato.

A lot of time passed before Ramses felt satisfied with the cheers he’d received, and then sighing he turned towards his foe.

“Pardon me my dear, but what can I do? When a popular monster like me is in front of such an amazing public…” His expression seemed to become more serious for a moment, and his smile hardened, now almost a triumphant grin “I have no choice but to promise all my fans I won’t disappoint them!”

“Ah, yes…” Sun Wukong answered with little to no interest, because in the meantime he’d laid down on his stomach, absentmindedly picking his nose.

Ramses pouted like a baby.

“Wh-what?! Did my super cool words have no effect on you?! You insensitive!” While his offended whines went on, the monkey got up scoffing.

“It’s because of people like you who don’t appreciate spectacle if art doesn’t sell anymore and the great showmen go unnoticed…”

It happened in a second, so fast that no one in the public could predict it: Sun Wukong had leaped forwards with a cold and detached expression, at the same time throwing a punch on his opponent’s head.

“Oh!” the Egyptian flinched, dodging the blow by simply arching his back.

Everyone was astonished by this action, included Sun Wukong himself, who had now widened his eyes.

He chained in rapid succession a series of hits with the palm of his hands and with his armoured legs, all aimed at destroying his opponent with a force that only the most ancient Chinese martial arts could unleash. However, every blow turned out to be vain against the pharaoh’s impressive alertness and elasticity.

Even on the sand, he could slide under every blow and leap out of the enemy’s range in a second, without ever breaking a sweat.

“You thought you could catch me off guard just because I was talking? Actually, having a gab is a weak point of mine, I admit…” he smiled, mocking the monkey.

“...but not this much!” With an unperceivable squeak, he brought his hand behind his back, where, covered by the cape, was a golden rod. Freeing it from its ligaments, he struck a sudden blow with a weapon that had been concealed until then.

Sun Wukong jumped away, but felt something sharp lash the hair on his face, too close to the flesh not to alert him.

What Ramses was now brandishing was a short spear completely made of gold, with a large blade decorated by what looked like alabaster. Despite the weight it seemed to have, the ruler started whirling it with skill, creating whirlwinds that lifted the sand nearby.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, rhetorical and smug, while his opponent felt a chill run down his spine to put him on guard.

“And now the great king… switches to counterattack!” the pharaoh announced himself, springing forward and attacking with a rain of lunges.

“He even does the commentary by himself now!” the presenters bellowed, hugging each other tightly while the whole human audience screamed at the top of their lungs.

The barrage of attacks seemed to submerge the small Sun Wukong like a giant wave, but the monkey backed off just in time. What was left where he was standing before was a pit in the sand, completely slashed by the golden spear.

“You thought I was only good at talking, huh? Taste the **Qdesh Typhoon**!” Ramses went back on the offensive without giving him peace, this time grabbing the lower part of the rod with both hands and rotating with all of his body.

He soon turned into a human-sized tornado, and with all that centrifugal force he started walking towards his foe.

“Liar” Sun Wukong hissed.

With the use of only his right hand he grabbed the pharaoh by the throat, ignoring his attack and intercepting it right when he was less than two feet away. He, however, didn’t give up, and confiding in inertia let the spear plumb onto the monkey’s throat.

What followed was a great metallic ruckus.

The humans went silent, because of an unexpected aura of terror that was spreading in the grandstands. All of that was inexplicable.

By simply lifting his free arm, the Monkey King had not only parried the whole Qdesh Typhoon, but it also seemed he’d destroyed the upper part of the spear on impact. Blade and decoration had turned into a contorted clutter, squashed on the god’s fur.

“You were a liar… for making me believe that was your Weapon” Sun Wukong growled, showing his sharp fangs in a terrible animal grimace.

“With the previous attack you managed to graze my flesh, and you can’t imagine how much that scared me before noticing there was no wound!”

The king, grabbed by the throat, let out a choked laugh in response.

“I didn’t guarantee anything.”

“Then why did you bring a useless weapon in this arena?”

“Well… I was fond of it, it’s… it was my spear for great occasions” Ramses answered with a dazzling smile.

A moment later his face was hit at high speed by a long object, and the hit was powerful enough to send him flying for various feet.

The gods’ representative suddenly widened his stance, taking a martial pose while he wielded his new weapon: a rod of dark iron that was much bigger than him, and that had at both ends a ring with typical decorations from ancient China.

In that new form, the monkey seemed to have completely given up his previous nonchalance, as if the match had awakened in him a dormant fighting instinct.

“Where the hell was he hiding that weapon?!” a humanoid dragon exclaimed in surprise, on the gods’ side. His small round glasses almost fell off his snout.

“It’s magic, undoubtedly. He summoned it out of nowhere, undoubtedly” answered a know-it-all similar of his.

“Of course! It’s magic, magic from China, the best in the world!” a third one cheered, playing two drums that he held between his crossed legs.

Hearing that guff, a fourth dragon, elegantly dressed in a suit themed “foaming waves against a stormy sky”, shook his head.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Dragon Kings of the South, West, and North Sea. He didn’t summon it with magic.”

“And how can you say that, Dragon King of the East?”

“Easy!” a female dragon meddled in the conversation, also dressed elegantly, making her husband blush. “That rod is actually an old column that was in our palace!”

The three dragons flinched, gaping their big mouths open.

“S-so that’s the legendary…”

“Yes” the Dragon King of the East nodded, diving into his memories.

_ His memory brought him back to an ordinary day in his palace at the bottom of the East Sea, when his daily life was interrupted by a strong earthquake. _

_ The dragon, at that moment asleep in his bed next to his wife, scaredly jolted. _

_ “Is someone attacking us?! How dare they?!” he roared, furiously running towards the entrance door. _

_ There, however, he found something he would have never expected to see. _

_ “A… monkey?” He could hardly believe it, observing a small, reddish monkey that muttered, massaging its nape. _

_ On the entrance door, as tall as a tower, was a cutout shaped exactly like that little monkey, irrefutable proof that he’d kicked it down by throwing himself against it. _

_ “Ohi ohi… is this the dragon’s palace?” While he complained with his childish voice, the monkey started looking around, scanning that magnificent palace no man had ever seen. Let alone a monkey. _

_ “Would you stop ignoring me after you broke down my door?!” the Dragon King angrily yelled, finally drawing the undesired guest’s attention. _

_ He could have easily swallowed him in a single bite, but the unexpected smile that little one gave him left him stunned. _

_ “Ah, is it your home? So I guessed right, is this the East Sea Palace? Listen dude, I’m looking for a weapon that’s fit for me, the Beautiful Monkey King Sun Wukong! Do you have anything for me…?” _

When the memories gave way to the present, the three dragons that were listening still had their jaws on the floor in surprise.

“So I gifted him the most ancient treasure I had…” The King Dragon of the East said, looking at the weapon that bratty monkey was now brandishing, even if several millennia later.

“The column that was used at the origin of time to measure the depth of the marine abysses, now turned into a rod… the **Ruyi Jingu Bang (Nyoi Bo)**!”

One of the dragons nodded, straightening his mustache.

“Undoubtedly, undoubtedly… a great weapon. Did you gift it to him because you saw what a great pride for the gods he’d become one day?”

Right when the Dragon King was about to answer, his wife hugged his neck, and smiling with a big smile she said: “Nooo! It was me who convinced him: you should believe me, that monkey was sooo cute!”

With great embarrassment from the Dragon Kings, the discussion ended.

A weapon that could shapeshift depending on its bearer's will, and whose name means Condescending Rod, the Nyoi Bo could be limitlessly altered in its dimensions.

In fact, to Sun Wukong, transforming it in a column or in a small pin hidden in his ear, as he'd done until then, was a child's play.

“Mah, I really don't understand where you were hiding it before…” Ramses scoffed with a whiny voice, getting up as if nothing had happened, against all predictions.

When he lifted his head, his eyes lit up with pride: “But I want it!”

The monkey had to set his surprise aside when he saw his opponent stand up, and feigned indifference with a grin.

“Sure, why not. Sorry to break it to you, but this legendary weapon weighs multiple tons, and I'm the only one in the world who could wield it.”

“I don't believe it. Let me try” the king said with absolute seriousness, and that bluntness sent Sun Wukong completely nuts.

Determined to put an end to that buffoonery, he dashes against his opponent brandishing the rod. He showed no pity, crashing it against him and using all of his skill in martial arts.

The hits, quick and unpredictable, coming from every direction, couldn't even be seen by the pharaoh. In fact he was immobilized by a flurry that even kept him suspended in the air for a bunch of seconds.

But the monkey's final blow, delivered making the rod spin backwards, threw him in the sky with unparalleled destructive heat.

“Maybe in another life, bastard!”

The gods burst in a victorious shout, raising their fists in the air to cheer at the top of their lungs for their representative.

Sun Wukong. Son Goku. The Monkey King.

These names and titles were hymned, mocking all those humans that now powerlessly looked at the arena.

When the pharaoh's body fell to the ground like a lifeless doll, a gasp came from the crowd.

The monkey approached his foe: "You shouldn't aim so high, especially if you're a good-for-nothing. If you don't deserve something, and in this case I'm talking about victory, you should simply make room for someone better.”

Ramses was shaken by a spasm and coughed up blood.

That sudden reaction genuinely surprised his opponent, who in fact stopped in his tracks. Thanks to the silence he managed to hear the words that followed:

"I shouldn't have tried, in your opinion? I should have stayed… aside?” His teeth, even though blood-stained, were uncovered to show a smile.

"And lose the opportunity to have this show? Oh, come on... I wouldn't have let this chance slip for nothing in the world!"

“Then why are you doing it?!” Sun Wukong clenched his teeth, annoyed by such obtuse behaviour.

The pharaoh didn't answer until he got up on his feet, demonstrating he still had control over his body despite the wounds he had almost everywhere.

"To be watched, simply.” And smiling, he went on: "Do you know who we are when no one watches us?"

The monkey was left speechless, too confused to think of an answer. He stayed still, watching him without understanding what was hidden behind that mild smile.

“No one. That's who." Ramses II concluded, and then lifted his hand in front of him.

“But, sparing these super cool speeches for someone less wimpy… I'll dissipate all your doubts, and finally show you my true Weapon.”

Something inside the Monkey King warned him about the danger before he could even see something.

Ramses's confident expression, a suspicious movement in the sand, that posture ready for an attack. He shouldn't have let him act, that's what his instinct ordered him to do.

“Stop boasting and get out of my sight!” he yelled, throwing such a fast hit that nothing in the world could even perceive it.

At least, that's what Sun Wukong believed. For this reason the utter shock he felt when he felt something counter his unwinnable Nyoi Bo, made his fur stand up with a cold shiver.

Only a soft noise had signaled the clash of his rod against anything Ramses had erected as a defense. It took him some seconds to fathom what it was, and at that moment he widened his eyes, incredulous:

The pharaoh had lifted two weapons, crossing them to fully absorb the blow. One was his spear, which he'd brandished until not long before, while the other one was… the Nyoi Bo.

Actually the two of them weren't completely identical, but they were made of a yellowish material, soft but at the same time almost indestructible. Sand.

Ramses rejoiced his opponent's surprised expression, who had seen him summon those copies out of the sand.

“I told you that weapon of yours would be mine.” He laughed, and taking advantage of Sun Wukong's destabilization, he seized the right instant to attack him: quick and deadly like a desertic monsoon, he disappeared from everyone's sight to appear behind the monkey's back.

First he felt a sense of torpor in all of his body, but then he felt overwhelmed by a gigantic pressure. He gasped, rattled, bent on himself, and finally fell to his knees.

Two horizontal cuts opened on his chest and back, sprinkling so much blood it painted the sand in that area red.

“Wh-What...?” He tried to say, but then he summoned all of his strength to leap to safety.

He distinctly saw his foe turn to him, and for some reason all the wounds on his body didn't make him seem less aitant, or on the verge of death like before. A mysterious energy, shiny like the sun, enlightened him and underlines his glorious beauty.

“Now the show can really begin!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second bout has begun! Check in tomorrow for the next chapter, and also check the story's official discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	6. To Have Nothing, And Nothing Left To Lose

** Chapter 6: To Have Nothing, And Nothing Left To Lose **

**_ 1259 B.C., Pharaoh’s royal palace _ ** _ _

_ The Nile flowed placidly, shining beneath the scorching sun of the desert. It flanked a domain that was completely different from the sandy panorama that stretched out for miles and miles: verdant gardens, pyramids, sphynxes, and sumptuous buildings that looked like castles more than temples. _

_ In that luxurious and fascinating environment, a literal oasis amidst desolation, no one would have guessed the fate of an important war was being decided. _

_ “Wh-What did you say, my pharaoh?!” The councilor almost jumped out of his seat, a similar reaction in all the other men of the council. _

_ Their gazes were aimed at the end of the long table, where the sun framed the silhouette of a man sat on a throne. _

_ “I said that…” The young man spoke, smiling in half-light because of his men’s exaggerated reaction. _

_ “I’ll sign a peace treaty with the Hittites. The battle of Qdesh must not continue any further, twenty years have been enough to realize its uselessness: it’s a waste of resources, human lives, and honestly, of my time in this world.” _

_ “So you want to come to terms with those invaders?!” a council member ranted, in the clutches of rage, using a tone that could have made him risk execution. _

_ “In war, you either win or lose!” he went on, undaunted. Normally the other members should have reprimanded him for such outrageous behaviour towards the pharaoh, but no one seemed to disagree with his words. _

_ The young man ran a hand through his red hair, enjoying the maids’ massage on his body: “The Hittites are worthy foes, so worthy to deserve peace. Think about it: nowadays, men live no longer than twenty-five years. Do you really want your children’s children to be born and die during the same war, without knowing… dunno, the joys of love?” _

_ At the pharaoh’s umpteenth sly smile, the minister who’d spoken before went into a ferocious rampage. _

_ “P-Peace… peace?! You keep on repeating this word, my pharaoh! But what are you really coveting? Why would you do something like this?!” _

_ At that point, Ramses II bent forward, with his elbows on his knees. His smile shone even in the shadow the gigantic throne cast over the table. _

_ “Easy: because no one ever did! Not my father Seth I, nor my ancestor Tutankhamon ever ended a war this way… I can say with absolute certainty that a similar event has never happened in history. So… I’ll be the first to end a war with peace! Isn’t it great?” _

_ That was the last straw. No one, during his brief reign, had ever doubted that Ramses was the craziest pharaoh to ever take the reins of Egypt. _

_ The minister lost control of his body, and in a raptus of madness, he dashed against the pharaoh screaming. _

_ “You damned fool! You won’t ruin Egypt!” Wielding a sword, he jumped on the table and run towards Ramses. _

_ The pharaoh didn’t have to move a muscle: he observed as a flash decorated with a bronzed armour and jewels intercepted and immobilized his attacker, and he delightedly smiled. _

_ Amonherkhepshef, the pharaoh’s eldest son and the one who held the most prestigious offices, had a serious and resolute look, completely different from his father’s playful and careless one. _

_ “Thanks, Amon.” _

_ “Bastard! Shame of your lineage!” the attacker yelled meanwhile, while other guards came to bring him away. _

_ “You build sumptuous works not to pay homage to the gods, but to yourself! Sooner or later, you’ll be punished: your reign won’t last forever!” _

_ While these words echoed in the silent room, the pharaoh’s smile suddenly became more serious, as if he’d gained a burdensome awareness.  _

_ Thanks to that event, Ramses was more resolute than ever to come to terms with the Hittites, putting an end to the battle of Qdesh with the first peace treaty in the history of mankind. _

_ However, his efforts to leave a mark in his similars’ course of events was once again hindered by a pretentious threat. _

_ -My reign won’t last forever…- _

_ Ramses knew it. He’d been aware of it since he was born, because the number of people who kept repeating that to him never ceased to grow. As much as he strived, as much as he fought, as much as he built… _

_ When he was about to leave his harem to go into battle, his first battle after he’d come to the throne, a woman let him slip from her arms saying: _

_ “What a shame to lose you like this, like all the others. You pharaohs think you’ll rule forever, but everything comes to an end.” _

_ Even his second wife Isinofret, a woman who’d never really loved him, but who succeeded his beloved and deceased Nefertari, continuously mocked him. _

_ “As old as you are, you can surround yourself with lovers all you want, but I’ll be the last wife you’ll see… and when the sun will set on your reign, I’ll be wed to another pharaoh.” _

_ The children he had with Isinofret, after Nefertari’s had died, reminded him those same words, showing that they were just as greedy as their mother:  _

_ “Father! Guess who’ll succeed you sometime? Not that you have a choice anyway… all these titles are ours by right, and when a pharaoh dies, another one comes!” _

_ -I’ll die.- Ramses repeated their words. _

_ He repeated them for years. And years. And years. So many years that... _

_ -Everyone’s died.- _

_ Ramses II was an extraordinary man, that no one in his time was able to parallel. _

_ Was it for the goals he reached at war? No. _

_ Was it for the number of heirs he had, that’s to say more than a hundred? No. _

_ Was it for splendid buildings he commissioned, that made his kingdom renowned for beauty and majesty throughout history? No. _

_ Ramses II lived for ninety-two years, and he ruled for sixty-six. No pharaoh ever could claim to have manipulated the fate of their kingdom for such a long time, marking a literal era in history that was named after him: Ramesside Age! _

_ Whoever hoped for his reign to end prematurely, as used to happen to all Egyptian rulers, died long before him. Ramses saw the ones who fought at Qdesh, all his lovers, his wives, and his children die before his eyes. _

_ Alone, the oldest pharaoh to ever live sat on his throne, aware of one single thing: _

_ He was the King of Kings, and no one would ever parallel him. _

But what was the reason that motivated him to live that long?

-To be seen by as many people as possible- Ramses answered, now in the Ragnarok Arena.

The match had resumed.

“So this is your Weapon…” Sun Wukong observed, recovered from the shock of having received an unexpected hit. The wound on his chest wasn’t even that deep, but his complexion had gone pale with fear.

The pharaoh nodded, blatantly rotating the thing he had in his hands.

“ ** Silt of the Nile… ** the power of creating whatever I want from sand.”

This ability is derived from his Sephirot:  _ Netzach,  _ Eternity.

“And now brace yourself! Let’s step into the limelight!” he shouted, tilting both weapons in parallel to the ground and spinning on himself like he’d done before.

This time, instead of getting close to his opponent, he decided to throw first the rod, then the spear as bullets.

The hits, charged with accumulated kinetic energy, traced two floating discs in the sky coming from opposite directions.

** “Desertic Typhoon!” **

Even though he couldn’t underestimate his foe anymore, the monkey kept the necessary coolness not to back off instantly. Rather, he raised the Nyoi Bo in a defensive stance to parry the first hit that would come.

At disproportionate speed, the first Desertic Typhoon impacted with his guard, and the unexpected strength that was unleashed gave him goosebumps.

-Damn! Even if it’s sand, it’s super heavy!- the Monkey King thought, luckily successfully parrying the attack. Determined to avoid another similar hit, he dodged the spear copy with a jump.

When he was about to land back on the ground, a flurry of small, sharp objects awaited him: sand knives.

With a last-second rod blow, he managed to disperse them, but it distracted him for a second, enough to let Ramses aim another similar attack at him.

** “Desertic Scorpions!”  **

The neverending series of hits took advantage of Sun Wukong’s rhythm break. He was now staggering on a razor blade between an attack and the other. The pharaoh didn’t seem to intend on giving his opponent time to catch his breath, demonstrating infinite stamina: the speed at which he made knives emerge from the sand at his feet to consequently throw them was impressive.

The monkey kept on leaping and hitting in whatever direction the blow came from, without ever stopping, but reluctantly noticing he couldn’t bridge the gap that separated him from his opponent. 

-He’s well aware that in close-up combat he wouldn’t be able to catch me off guard anymore, and he’s even aware of my superiority with the rod!- While these thoughts bounced around his head to the rhythm of his dodges, with the tail of his eye he saw a shadow coming from behind him.

Maybe he’d just imagined it, or it was a play of light in that strange arena: he was too busy rejecting the Desertic Scorpions to care.

It was at that moment that the figure behind him, that’s to say a copy of Ramses II made of sand and armed with a spear, struck a blow to his back. The monkey, as he’d already predicted, didn’t even have to turn around. By simply making the Nyoi Bo spin over his head, he dissolved the knives coming at him and at the same time behead the clone with disarming coolness.

Humans and gods, who at that moment saw a chance of victory for the pharaoh, flinched when they realized how that situation had turned around in the blink of an eye.

Even Ramses was stunned to see his sneaky attack be dismissed, and this surprise cost him a moment of distraction. More than enough for the Monkey King, who pointed his rod at him like a pool cue.

With only an effort of his mind, with an order given to his weapon he allowed it to stretch at the speed of light towards the pharaoh, cancelling the distance between them.

Ramses, panicked because of that unpredicted attack, hurriedly summoned several clones of his to form a barrier in front of him.

“Useless!” Sun Wukong roared, suddenly changing pose and, along with it, attack.

Stepping forwards and stooping, he leaped upwards and whipped the air in diagonal thanks to a devastating rotation. The lunge from before, now turned into a sweep, turned Ramses’s human shield to dust, like grains to the wind.

Behind his useless defense, in a vortex of sand, the pharaoh was harshly hit on his open side: this time the hit reverberated through his bones and, judging from the noise that came from his ribs, it caused him seven lethal fractures, along with a hemorrhage in the respiratory system.

With a dry pop that echoed in the whole colosseum, the human was thrown in the farthest part of the arena. His flight ended when he crashed against the wall, mounting himself in it.

Desperate, the humans howled Ramses’s name, this time with grief. Amon, the pharaoh’s firstborn, surrounded by a hundred siblings and step-siblings, yelled his father’s name as tears welled up his eyes.

From afar, Ammit looked at the scene with serious, icy eyes. On his side was a woman, concealed by a hooded cape. 

The divine audience shouted the name of its vanguard, cheering the lethal blow that had successfully landed.

“Who would have said it?” was the cynical comment of an elderly man with a long a thin ponytail of grey hair on his bald skull.

“That small monkey, operating fighting techniques that are more complex than simple blind attacks? Damn… if I had taught him at the time, now I could claim to be his most influential master.”

The man in question was Shubuti, a zen master that Sun Wukong had nagged to teach him martial arts. Unluckily for the monkey, the master was very intolerant towards the ones who didn’t complete each and every step of his training, which included meditation and philosophy.

“I have to admit this is skill” he said with mixed sweetness and admiration. “A skill you can only develop throughout years and years, and that no master could ever teach. I wonder which journey led him to this…”

_ The monkey-like warrior, who had become the most-known legend in Asia and had a sixteenth-century book dedicated to him, is associated with two events: _

_ His search for immortality, that brought him to challenge all the gods of the Chinese pantheon, and the journey to the west to redeem himself from his pride, accompanied by his trusted friends. _

_ Well, one of these is actually false. _

_ The day Sun Wukong reached the peak of his power after the became the strongest mortal creature to ever walk the Earth, even his request for immortality had become unbearable to the gods’ ears. These, organizing a punitive expedition, came down to Earth to put an end to his arrogance. _

_ But what they found wasn’t the simple fighting monkey whose deeds had reached their placid stay in Heaven. _

_ Before them stood a literal demon. _

_ “Come forward!” the beast roared, after climbing bare-handed the mountain of bloody corpses he’d made to reach the clouds. Under his feet he crushed deities, saints, and immortals, all killed with the rod he now held with his teeth. _

_ Stained with blood from head to toe, his armour now in shambles, that monkey with the power of speech and an unparalleled tenacity had arrived where no one had ever tried to. _

_ When he found himself at the feet of the Jade Palace, and only the imperial family and Buddha were left, he yelled as loud as he could at Heaven. _

_ “When are you going to hurry up and make me a fucking immortal like you?! Huh?! Oldies!!” _

_ The gods, with nothing left to do except bow their heads before a similar, incredible power, had to grant him eternal life without objecting. _

_ There were no sacred peaches of immortality as in the legend, just an overwhelming victory. _

_ However, what awaited Sun Wukong in his immortality was the most unexpected trap. _

_ “What? Can you repeat?” the monkey asked, astonished. _

_ In front of him a god in suit and tie, just like him, was typing on a laptop without pause. They were in an enormous room, where no eye could land without finding desks with at least two or three well-dressed employees staring at a screen. _

_ The noise of his fingers on the keyboard was like a neverending buzzing of bees. _

_ -What does this have to do with gods?- _

_ “Your task as a god from now on is to monitor the humans” his colleague answered apathetically. “It’s written in the work contract you signed. Now you have to turn on the computer and run the program: Record of…” _

_ His robotic speeches got lost in the void of Sun Wukong’s mind. At that moment, he couldn’t make his expression less confused. _

_ “H-hold up, hold up! How long do I have to do this? I thought being a god meant fighting monsters and demons! When can I be promoted to do stuff like that?” _

_ “You’ll be behind this desk for the rest of your life. And you’re immortal now. You’d better get used to it and start working.” _

_ The monkey started convulsively shivering, while his stunned face, incapable of properly reacting to that incomprehensible situation, was paralyzed. He wanted to cry, scream, kill everyone, and destroy Heaven again. _

_ But actually, he was just confused. _

_ -Huh?- _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So, what do you think of the two fighters' pasts? In this chapter there’s an example of one thing I really like to do: twist the story. Actually I prefer to call it deconstruction in a different context, more related to the theme that I want to represent.  
> When I wrote this chapter I wanted to talk about the identity of the individual, and how this is inevitably conditioned by what happens to us. The work we choose (or do not choose), how long we live, the people around us... I admit that the theme of alienation that has caught Sun Wukong may seem funny and ridiculous, I realize. Hope you like it anyway!  
> Check in tomorrow for the next chapter, and also check the story's official discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	7. Let The Show Begin

**Chapter 7: Let the Show Begin**

Uncertainty and fear ran rampant among humans, after their champion had suffered such a devastating attack. Not even Masutatsu Oyama had reported such serious injuries in the previous bout, and the silence in the arena foreshadowed defeat.

Obviously everyone prayed for it not to happen, trusting the miracle only mankind could give them.

On the battlefield, Sun Wukong slowly walked towards the point where he’d tossed his opponent. The stretchable rod hung on his shoulder, leaning lazily.

“Do you really think it’s necessary to suffer so much just for showmanship?” This time, the monkey used a different tone from the one he’d previously used to talk to Ramses: there was no boldness in lecturing him like someone who pities their enemy, but rather he was calm and reflexive.

His interlocutor, who wasn’t a dead man at all, moved.

With minimal effort the pharaoh freed himself from the stone he’d been mounted upon, setting foot on the ground. His head dangled downwards.

“Eheh…” However, hoarse laughter went up his throat. “No offense, Monkey King, but…”

When he showed the audience his face, he sported a dazzling smile, from which blood poured like a waterfall.

“I can’t waste my breath explaining the value of showmanship to someone who doesn’t even know what to do with their infinite life!”

The monkey’s eyes widened, becoming two turbid red fire pits. The hair on his body stood up like lightning, meandering in the air.

“What… did you say?!” he hissed through his monstrous teeth in plain sight.

The pharaoh shrugged with fake resignation: “I’m saying you’re not doing anything with your immortality. That’s why you’re a useless god, and if I didn’t eliminate you right here, right now, it’d be a great moral defeat for mankind: losing against a god that wastes their godliness-”

He didn’t even manage to end his speech, because he found his head embedded in the arena wall, this time far deeper than before. The noise, similar to an explosion, made the spectators jump from their seats due to its sudden violence.

It was possible to glimpse, just for a brief second, Sun Wukong’s hand that had set Ramses in stone, before they both disappeared. 

A sonic roar originated from the center of the colosseum, and in no time the arena walls cracked from some strange reason, crumbling more and more.

With the same unpredictability everything had started with, silence fell: Sun Wukong reappeared and threw Ramses’s body at the center of the arena.

“I-Incredible! Without any of us noticing…” the presenters said, not believing their own eyes while they broadcast terrifying images, to say the least.

The arena walls now presented deeply-dug grooves that went over its circumference various times. All of that wasn’t there moments before.

After flinging his foe like a dead weight, Sun Wukong spoke with a deep sigh. His complexion was now way more reddish and his ruffled fur, that made him look two times his actual size, made him look terrifying.

He raised his index finger next to his face, dark with rage: “One second. It took me one second to make you go around the arena fifty-two times.”

Under the public’s incredulous eyes, the monkey warrior now presented a further change: his feet didn’t touch the ground anymore, instead he was sitting on a floating golden cloud with his legs crossed.

“That move!” They shivered with reverential dread. “It’s that bastard’s renown move that makes him so strong! I was surprised he hadn’t used it already…”

One of the magic arts mastered by the Monkey King, and that allowed him to conquer Heaven along with his Nyoi Bo: **Cloud Walking** , the ability to summon a cloud that allowed him to move at elusive speed.

-Nothing…- the monkey was thinking, in the meantime, still blinded by anger.

-I’m not doing anything… with my immortality?-

“It’s not possible! Ladies and gentlemen, believe it or not, even after the terrible hits inflicted by Sun Wukong…”

St. Peter’s and Adramelech’s shouts brought him back to reality, as well as a horrified wince from the crowd. 

When he looked forward, he couldn’t help but gape.

“...Ramses the Great has got back up!”

The king of Egypt, now with a dreadful wound hidden in his hair, from which a trickle of blood was leaking, was straightening his back.

The first thing he did was meet his opponent’s eyes.

“What? You look totally different from before.”

That point-blank sentence made even Sun Wukong hesitate. He, with the upper hand and in front of a near-dead human, was shaken.

Ramses made his playful laugh burst out again, so childish and clear to belong to a man as powerful as him. When he’d finished, wiping a tear as he smiled, he gave his enemy an understanding glance:

“Is it really that bad to admit that you’ve realized the only thing that makes you feel alive is fighting?”

The sun lit his radiant expression, not fit at all for someone in his spot.

“Actually, let me correct myself… you haven’t realized it at all. You’ve remembered it: something inside of you suppressed for all this time the true reason you were alive!”

Sun Wukong didn’t know how to react anymore. His divine heart was torn by those words.

-Why… why is this human…-

He saw himself, millennia earlier, as he climbed a mountain of dead gods.

He saw himself intent on spending his time doing absolutely nothing for millennia.

It was true. He hadn’t done anything with his immortality.

-Why is this human right?-

“Now show me you can also bask in victory!” the pharaoh exclaimed, ruthlessly pointing at him. “Only this way we can put up a worthy show for gods and humans!”

-The reason I fought… the reason I fight…- Sun Wukong said to himself, at the peak of his eternal life.

All of his senses sharpened, and time itself seemed to slow down while the golden cloud was ready to sprint. The grip on his rod tightened. His muscles were tense.

-...in the end was showing the gods I was someone! It was… showmanship!-

The two contestants, as ready as ever, prepared to go back to business.

The Monkey King was quicker, and in no time he’d already dashed against his opponent.

The Egyptian was thrown in the air due to the strength of innumerable hits inflicted on him without him being able to see them. The pain reached him when bruises and cuts had already appeared all over his body.

-I can’t go on like this! If I receive another similar hit I might die!- He couldn’t surpass the speed of the golden cloud, let alone in his current state: broken bones and destroyed muscles well over the limit of human endurance made it a superhuman effort to even simply stand.

He took advantage of a moment when Sun Wukong was moving away to take a run and act.

Slumped over the sand, his ally, he let it cover him as a barrier. Soon, something beautiful and scary at the same time emerged: a giant armour with a mask, helmet, and spear.

That sand sculpture fascinated the humans without them even knowing why, even the ones who’d never seen the sarcophaguses from Ancient Egypt in their lives.

“ **King’s Armour**!” Brandishing its weapon in a defensive stance, the colossus prepared itself to receive the umpteenth blow from his enemy, about five feet smaller. 

Sun Wukong immediately understood what his opponent’s goal was: he’d prepared himself to block his charge with that gigantic mass and the hardness of sand, to then attack him once he’d run out of inertia.

He didn’t care about it, and sharpened his eyes to better take aim. The cloud vibrated.

A moment later, he’d drawn a golden bolt in the air, and moved behind the King’s Armour’s back: it had been destroyed with a single blow from the legs up, completely obliterating it.

Two details caught the monkey’s eye: first, the impact had inevitably stopped his charge; second, his opponent was no longer in the armour.

At that moment, taking advantage of his distraction, Ramses jumped out of the sand with his spear pointed directly at his chest. The pharaoh, camouflaged by the explosion of sand grains and the shadow that Sun Wukong’s cloud cast on the ground, wasn’t seen until the last minute.

But, with deadly precision, the Monkey King hit him with a sharp blow at the center of his head, cracking it open in a gush of cranial bones, eyeballs, and brains.

He noticed too late that all his rod had hit was just sand, or better, the umpteenth sand copy.

Right then, from the lower part of the King’s Armour, where he’d hidden until then, the authentic Ramses II gathered all his strength to jump towards his opponent with his arms wide open. This time Sun Wukong could do nothing to stop him, as he’d left his side unprotected.

He expected a fatal blow, but the pharaoh had sacrificed the weight of a weapon for a more efficient strategy: tackling his foe’s legs, he hugged them in order to make him lose his balance and make him fall off of his cloud.

So he did, and the two of them found themselves entwined on the ground while, above their heads, the crowd cheered wildly with both hope and despair.

The fighters, breaking cold sweats seeing how the fate of the battle had changed so suddenly, looked in each other’s eyes for a mere second. Then, they took a deep breath.

Trying to keep the monkey pressed against the sand, Ramses shouted in anger to summon all of his strength.

Behind Sun Wukong’s back, various figures emerged, and when he turned around he was caught by terror: it was a hippopotamus, a crocodile, and a jackal with their mouths gaped, and there was even a hawk diving towards him with its claws exposed.

“The charge of the most dangerous animals in Egypt!” The presenters announced them: “Now that Sun Wukong is in the sand, he’s in the pharaoh’s domain!”

The beasts jumped onto their prey, ready to devour it, but one of them was met mid-air by a punch.

Another one followed, and then another.

Ramses, who had his head pressed against his opponent’s chest to pin him against the ground, could hear the sound of his sand copies being destroyed.

-How is it possible?! From this position, he shouldn’t be able to defend himself…- When he was forced to look up, he was met with such an unthinkable sight it gave him chills. 

“It-It’s the Monkey King’s other famous move!” The Chinese gods recognized it on the spot, even though their surprised expressions weren’t much different from the pharaoh’s.

Sun Wukong was still pinned to the ground, his back still turned to where the sand beasts once were, but something wrong was happening: arms had grown from his back, and then, quicker and quicker, anthropomorphic figures.

Ramses powerlessly witnessed the birth of various clones of the Monkey King, all wielding the Nyoi Bo and with a smug grin on their faces.

When he looked back at the original one, his true opponent showed him a smile just as wicked as theirs, his eyes still flaming like lava stones.

** Shei Wa Shen Fa ** : a magic technique that allows Sun Wukong to create a clone from a single hair of his fur. Without this magic, he wouldn’t have been able to crush the army of seventy-two gods that was sent against him.

Obviously he hadn’t used this move since that legendary battle, and the adrenaline rush his body had generated right at that moment reminded him about the intoxicating feeling of power belonging to that event.

Sun Wukong had awakened his self-perception, expanding it beyond the limits imposed by the time he’d spent doing nothing, which had suppressed every dream and wish of his.

If you don’t aspire to power you can’t obtain power, and who stops fighting ends up forgetting why they ever wanted to fight in the first place. The monkey’s rebirth had come.

“N-No!” the pharaoh grunted, caught off guard by that extraordinary evolution. He tried to get away from his enemy, but even a minimal movement cost him greater internal bleeding.

Meanwhile, his opponent, surrounded by about ten clones, had got back up.

“Thank you for reawakening the will to fight in me. If I don’t show off now that I can, then my wait until today would be meaningless!” His sincere words conveyed strength, like an overflowing river, and they overwhelmed the listeners with their intensity.

Gods and humans felt a chill run down their spine, incapable of fathoming just what that brief match could represent in Sun Wukong’s life to make him say something like that.

However, Ramses II didn’t want to listen, and waving a hand he erected a host of sand copies to protect himself.

It took Sun Wukong’s clones very little time to pulverize them.

“Unfortunately for you, I found out your weapon’s limit.” His opponent’s stern voice made him shiver in fear, encouraging him to back off more and more as he created more copies.

“Apparently you can’t exactly create whatever you want, or at least not without repercussions. That’s why, until now, you only created things you know well: your spear, those animals, the armour, the daggers, and even… yourself. On the contrary, you couldn’t immediately recreate the Nyoi Bo, although you’d been saying you wanted it for a while. You waited, you even received various blows, with the sole goal of impressing it in your memory. This is your limit: you can’t generate something you don’t perfectly know every single detail of.”

The monkey kept walking forward, while around him flew his foe’s pulverized clones.

“I must compliment you for learning the conformation of my rod while bearing all those hits. However, I’m not done yet: the second limit to your power is that, after generating something from sand, your body isn’t immediately ready to act. This is why, earlier, you kept the distance with those daggers, and now you’re doing the same with your clones.”

The pharaoh’s eyes, widened in the desperation that was now possessing him, reflected the opponent’s shadow, now looming over him.

-N-No… I can’t… die here!-

_ The sun, symbol of Rah according to the Egyptians, was setting on the horizon. _

_ Between the yellow line represented by the desert and the purple sky, there were just a few spots of imperfect perfection: oases that reflected the rays, shining like premature stars on Earth. _

_ The Nile, on the side of the palace, hosted some fishing boats. Far away, the city with its workers was still in full activity. _

_ Among the sand were camels, scorpions, merchants, and a lot of other living beings. _

_ For short, man’s life didn’t set at all under that sunset. _

_ “Amon…” Ramses II, who’d stopped to stare at that breathtaking landscape with his young firstborn beside him, called him with sweet but assertive voice. _

_ Amonherkhepshef lifted his head. His sadness showed how he, too, had been captured by that view. _

_ “You want to ask me something, don’t you?” _

_ The kid nodded, cupping his cheeks with his hands and lowering his gaze. _

_ “Father, I’ve been wanting to ask you for days now… why you haven’t shed a tear at my mother’s funeral, Queen Nefertari. The whole kingdom cried, even councilors and soldiers.” _

_ The man gave a hint of a smile, as if he wanted to justify his answer: “Yes, she was very loved.” _

_ “And did you love her? I’m wondering because… if you didn’t love her, it’d make sense for you not to cry at her funeral.” _

_ “I loved her a lot, Amon.” This time the pharaoh was blunt, not wanting to further torture his son with doubt. _

_ “Nefertari was my beloved before she was my queen. She owned everything I owned, the only one I trusted enough to entrust her with my kingdom… and my life. I miss her a lot.” _

_ Amonherkhepshef stayed silent, looking at the sunset with his parent. Maybe he was trying to catch a hint of his mother’s face among the rosy clouds of twilight. _

_ “You miss her a lot, but you still hook up with other women.” _

_ That foreign comment from his son was like a dagger to the heart for Ramses, who, caught red-handed, didn’t know how to answer. He blushed so hard that he was grateful to the colours of the sunset, in case they made it go unnoticed. _

_ “Uh… yes. But that’s not the point” he tried to save the situation, clearing his throat. _

_ “However, I’ll never love any other woman like I loved Nefertari. But… the day of her funeral I didn’t cry because I felt that, even at that moment, I couldn’t crumble… I had to go forward. Even at the darkest hour, I had to go on!” _

_ This last sentence was pronounced with so much pride it confused the kid, who didn’t imagine this kind of reason was behind his father’s actions.  _

_ “B-But why?” _

_ “So that she, even if dead, can keep seeing me stay on track, and be proud of me when I do something good for others.” _

_ Ramses the Great gave a last, passionate look at Egypt, that was standing out before him. _

_ \- Look at me! Everyone look at me! I’ll build a reign so splendid no one will be able to erase it from history: because I will be history, and I will forever be talked about!- _

Going back to the darkest hour he’d ever experienced in his long life, the pharaoh remembered his promise in the shadow of the pyramids.

And oath he’d made, since the beginning, to the humans that would come after him.

-I don’t want to disappear! I don’t want to disappear!-

He joined his hands in prayer, before turning them into fists and slamming them in the sand.

-I want to add this victory to my legendary story!-

“ **Oath to the Nile: Palace of the King of the Desert!** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is near! Check in tomorrow for the last chapter, and also check the story's official discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	8. To Have Nothing, And Nothing Left To Lose (Final)

**Chapter 8: To Have Nothing, And Nothing Left To Lose (Final)**

“ **Oath to the Nile: Palace of the King of the Desert**!”

Before Sun Wukong could strike his final blow on his defenseless opponent, a wall of sand originated between the two of them.

Another one followed, creating a forking of hallways that managed to split up his clones. With frantic speed, walls and ceilings were being generated to trap the monkey.

He instantly knocked one down with a punch, only to find an identical one behind it.

Soon he was in the dark, with the ongoing noise of that strange prison that was incessantly expanding.

-He’s gaining distance again!- he stated, inevitably sweating because of the tension.

A glow shone from his eyes, allowing him to see even in complete darkness.

He focused: -I can sense all my clones, I can control them. They are far from me, but they all have the same strength as me…-

A nervous smile stretched his lips when he realized the only option left. He lifted his rod, and then downed it on a wall, knocking it down.

He knew that his enemy, after creating that desperate building, had undoubtedly run out of energy. What awaited him was a hunt, or better, a race against time. Via his mind, he felt that all his clones, too, had begun breaking down the walls that imprisoned them.

-Me or you, Ramses? The end of this battle is near, and only one of us can be the winner!-

Thus began the furious race inside that maze, an unknown territory where moving resulted to be fatal: apparently, Ramses had hidden some of his weapons, like spears and knives, in the walls, and when these exploded they released sharp slashes which were almost impossible to dodge.

Even Sun Wukong’s clones, after some time, were being decimated in the most atrocious deaths, and the monkey couldn’t replace them as he’d taken too much damage. His energy, that he believed to be endless, found its limit in that deadly trap: a battle of endurance was, for the first time in his life, the greatest weakness he’d ever come across.

Nonetheless, bleeding and suffering, he kept destroying whatever crossed his path with a flurry of hits. His focus was minimal, he didn’t even react to pain anymore, and that’s why he didn’t notice he was moving with various blades of spears and daggers in his body.

The earth quaked, shaking the building his enemy was trying to lock him in.

-No!- the monkey repeated to himself. -From now on, I’m the one who breaks all cages!-

He went on until exhaustion.

Right when all hope was about to abandon him, he found him. Even though he expected to find him shacked up in a dark corner, he was surprised when he noticed the place he was in. It was a square hall, with a row of columns that centered his sight on a carpet, rolled out up to some stairs. And there, on an elevated pedestal, beneath a statue representing a hawk with its wings stretched and the sun over his head, stood a throne.

Ramses II laid slumped on that seat, drenched in sweat and prey to tremendous spasm because of the wounds he’d suffered. His eyes, however, showed no sign of surrender, and were looking up with hope: they were looking at a figure, sat on the throne at his place, that was holding his head on their knees. It was a woman of still sand, but nonetheless the inexpressive material wasn’t able to retain the splendid beauty of that representation: an Egyptian queen, her gait proud, who at that moment inspired kindness and love.

After some seconds Ramses, who’d become blind due to his wounds, noticed his opponent’s entrance. His queen of sand crumbled, covering him, because that enchantment of unreachable perfection had been broken.

He wasn’t able to fight anymore, and even though Sun Wukong too had been mortally wounded, he still held a weapon in his hand and had the strength to use it.

“Are you finally proud of yourself, Sun Wukong? Are you proud of risking your life once again?”

“Yes. And hadn’t I met you, I’d still be confined in that prison without any suffering, any fatigue… without a dream to chase. Now that the gods are finally watching me, I’m someone again!” The monkey gripped the Nyoi Bo, bringing it to his chest. “I would have liked to know you in life… Ramses II.”

The pharaoh, his eyes half-closed, went back to smiling.

“Me too. Nevertheless, no one is actually watching us… because the people on the outside are looking at something that will go down in history.”

His words were so burdensome they almost sounded like a threat to Sun Wukong’s ears.

He stumbled, surprised: “What do you mean?”

An Earth tremor anticipated every answer. At the moment when Sun Wukong looked back at his opponent, he found him in the middle of the most thunderous laughter he’d ever heard.

The pharaoh laughed, he laughed heartily, with the joy of still being alive against any prediction.

“The greatest construction a pharaoh can build is only one… and it’s the grave he’ll die in!”

“Ladies and gentlemen… our contestants have disappeared for some seconds now, but… we can foresee an uncommon outcoming!”

Their voice breaking in anticipation, the presenters barely managed to find the words after something sublimely terrifying had appeared before everyone’s eyes.

The Ragnarok arena didn’t exist anymore, because in its place a gigantic pyramid of sand had risen, as tall as the colosseum itself.

“Neither can we believe it, ladies and gentlemen…”

But the most impressive thing happened right after that.

A colossal shadow plunged the whole audience into darkness and when they looked up to search for an explanation, they were left gaping: another pyramid, upside-down, was suspended in the sky.

The sand couldn’t further resist gravity, and when the peaks of the two megalithic buildings met, they both started collapsing in a monstrous collision.

The roar that collapse emitted generated a pressure so high in the atmosphere, both gods and humans thanked the magical barrier that defended them from whatever happened on the battlefield. However, witnessing such destruction was an event as catastrophic as unexplainably glorious.

- **...Farewell… Nefertari…** -

It didn’t last long, and everything ended in silence. Like in the beginning, a carpet of sand covered the arena and concealed whatever had happened in its previous field.

The sun was still shining in the sky.

“Who…” Adramelech gulped down a lump in his throat, grasping the microphone in his shaking hands.

“Who survived? Ramses II? Sun Wukong?”

“Or maybe…” St. Peter portended, shivering. “...no one?”

No one seemed to have an answer to that question. Before that show of devastation, no pride could make one side doubtlessly claim who the winner was. Gods and humans, for the first time in that tournament, writhed in doubt in unison.

Then it happened: a roar coming from the underground.

The sand barely moved, pushed from beneath by something that was making its way up from the depths it had been confined in. An ascent against life and death.

And, framed by the rays of a never-setting sun, the end of that show was definitely marked.

Making the sand loudly explode, the Nyoi Bo rod, turned into a gigantic column, erupted from the ground. Attached at its end, that now stood higher than the grandstands, was the Monkey King, Sun Wukong.

The monkey, injured and surely about to pass out in exhaustion, dripped sand and blood from his wounds. He’d brutally taken the blades out of his body and his chaps were almost completely shattered, representing the only exhibit left from the tremendous match he’d survived.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… we can finally state that the victory…”

“...this time goes to the gods, scored by Sun Wukong, the Monkey King!!”

While the divine crowd, for the first time in that tournament, celebrated their victory, the monkey didn’t care at all about anything that was beneath him.

Not about his similars, who finally acknowledged his power, or the humans, who were desperately crying. Not even the battlefield he’d stepped on drew his attention: everything worth remembering had been buried by the weight of history. 

Instead, full of nostalgia for the beautiful experience he’d lived, Sun Wukong sat on the end of his giant rod. He lifted his head towards the sun, sadly murmuring:

“It was a great show.”

On the grandstands of who now knew defeat, moving a step closer to extinction, dirge laments soared up to the sky.

Amonherkhepshef, now an orphan, had his head bowed and his fists pressed against the stone. He was about to scream all his despair, when two arms hugged him from behind. He flinched, but a sweet voice made his heart vibrate:

“I’m sorry… but at least know that your father didn’t go unnoticed by anyone.” Even though he couldn’t see their face, they seemed to smile in the sweetest way he knew.

The young man turned around, but didn’t find anyone. On his shoulder, where that presence had laid their face, were some tears: “Mother…?”

Ptah had already disappeared, abandoning that sad funeral for a now eclipsed great soul.

Sometime later, inside one of the waiting rooms prepared for the fighters, an interesting dialogue was taking place. The darkness was illuminated by a lit fireplace, whose flames lit a long silver table and red curtains, drawn to block any light coming from the outside.

The table, although long, hosted only two people: the first was the mysterious god, sat with his back against the fireplace, while the other one was so immersed in darkness his face couldn’t be seen.

A human child had brought a wine bottle, pouring some in the god’s glass.

“So you’re the next fighter. How does that make you feel, if I may ask?” the deity asked, sipping some wine to conceal his inquiring eyes he tried to scrutinize in the dark with.

“Does it matter?” a voice answered from the other side of the table, so hoarse and cavernous it seemed to come from the depths of the Earth. When the god didn’t answer, the voice continued.

“I fought my whole life. This is just another war… but it’s not holy, or anything else. In some way, it’s the wrongest war I’ve ever fought, but also the rightest.”

“Wrong? Right? What do you mean?”

Meanwhile, the kid was walking towards the other guest, but the darkness didn’t let him sense just how long that table was. Suddenly, he’d wandered off so far he got lost. With terror in his eyes he turned around, seeing the fireplace’s light as far as ever.

“I mean that fighting a god was unthinkable to me… but if these gods are so cruel and mischievous, they deserve that I ruthlessly execute them!”

When the voice coming from the dark roared like that, the child flinched: it was closer than he’d imagined. He slowly turned his head, meeting a sight he’d never forget:

Two eyes as red as embers, over two shining fangs, was all he saw, and it was enough to make him pass out.

“O-Ohoho! Pardon my prank, young boy!” Readily, the man caught the page boy before he fell, saving the bottle at the same time. “I was mean to scare you, my fault.” He started humming with a playful attitude, lightly shaking the child to make him regain consciousness.

He’d retracted his fangs, and even his eyes were less scary now.

When the kid revived, he ran away without looking back, making the two burst out in a goliardic laugh.

“Anyway, allow me to ask a question now…” the man murmured, sipping his wine too. A reddish drop slipped from his lips, dripping down his chin.

“Why are you doing this? You’re a god, and yet unlike your similars you’ve given humanity the chance to contrast our doom.”

“Wonderful question. Wonderful, really” the god praised him with a smile too warm and welcoming. “The answer is I hate every kind of arrogance and ignorance, and doubtlessly decreeing all humanity as deserving of extinction just for a couple of crimes is a sign of both these cowardices.”

He went on, wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief: “Someone had to show the gods that humans are also capable of deeds strong enough to change their fate. I imagine that upon this statement of mine some deities already started trembling… because they recognize your power, and they fear it. This explains their ignorance and arrogance: they stem from fear… but justice and balance are necessary in the world, for both humans and gods.”

As an answer, the man in the dark clapped with grace and delicacy.

“Admirable, really. Because I too think it’s silly to hate all humans unconditionally, I won’t do the same with gods. But, alas, if I have to kill one in order to make my kind survive, should I escape? No, I don’t think so.” He raised his glass towards his companion.

“I’d be dumb if I wasted the opportunity you gave me!”

They toasted.

“At this point, I think the gods’ choice for their next challenger is most fitting, so you won’t have to grieve that much” the god grinned, arousing his interlocutor’s curiosity.

A display that showed a picture was passed to him from the other side of the table.

The man in the dark plunged into a freezing silence.

The curtains were lifted, moved suddenly by an unnaturally cold wind, as if it were dragging the coldest and darkest night in history with it. The flames in the fireplace wavered for a second, before disappearing forever and gifting utter obscurity to that room.

The only exception to those shadows were two lit cinders shiny tears soon began to pour from, as red as blood.

“A devil…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! The end of the second bout has finally come! Do you agree with the result, or you were hoping Ramsess would win? Let me know, maybe in the story's official Discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> The translation of the third battle is already in progress! Bye!


	9. I Got Blood On My Hands

** Chapter 9: I Got Blood On My Hands **

This was the moment everyone was waiting for.

With a tie, cause of great anxiety and worry for both gods and humans, their fates were on thin ice. That tension could be broken only by blood, spilt once more in that arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcers trilled. 

“Today’s match will take place on a brand-new battlefield, full of dangers and tricks” St. Peter said.

His companion added: “Maybe the contestants will be able to turn it to their advantage, who knows?”

Indeed, in the arena something had risen that no one would have expected to see: an intricate system of irregular rock walls created tunnels and galleries, all of this in the dark, as the sun only came through as feeble rays from high up. Like thin waterfalls, streams of sand flowed to the ground.

“After the victory scored by the gods, will mankind be able to recover?”

“Let’s find out, with…!”

“The human representative for this third bout…”

As soon as he entered the arena, he dragged a deafening noise along with him: it was the roll of thousands of drums played on mankind’s grandstands.

The tribunes were suddenly crowded with intimidating men who inspired fear in whoever looked at them, big and inhumanly scary. Their plated armors were black and edgy like scales, with a maw-shaped helmet on their heads.

Who didn't play the drums flew a vessel instead, hymning with an epic song to the legendary animal portrayed: a black and blood-red dragon.

It looked like that same beast had just stepped on the battlefield, but actually, it was just a man.

“The man who, to defend his folk, became known for having sold his soul and become capable of any atrocity! Tortures, executions, striking terror in his enemies: what’s strength if not prevailing over your foe at all costs?!”

A black dragon went over his armor, wrapping itself around it and showing two spread bat wings on the back. He wore no helmet.

“The legend of the beast, the monster, the devil… how much blood has been spilt to give birth to all those nightmares?”

Long black hair covered his shoulders, while a pair of soft mustaches went from under his nose to his jaw, framing a stern, almost funereal expression. Without his two eyes shining with terrible beauty, one could have said he wasn’t even alive, or human: pointy ears, hooked nose, sunken cheeks, and a pale reflection that shone on his face.

“And all these sacrifices have been erected… on the tip… of his… spear!”

The same weapon he already wielded, a jousting pole marked by a spiral groove that looked like claws, or sometimes scales, soaked with dried, black blood.

“The Dragon! The Voivode of Wallachia…”

The famished soldiers of the Order of the Dragon roared his name.

“Vlad III Ţepeş (the Impaler) also known as Dracula!”

The creature that now moved in the shadows of that cave made everyone who wasn’t part of the Order of the Dragon plunge into silence.

Humans and gods, upon observing that tall man who lurked in the darkness utter silence, had started shivering.

“Look at his weapon!” a god pointed out, pointing at the tip of the spear the human was dragging, leaving behind a ram that dug into the Earth.

“Masutatsu Oyama and Enkidu raised their guards after they entered the arena… after that, Sun Wukong and Ramses II took out their weapons when the match started… but he’s been wielding his spear from the exact moment he took the field!”

What that statement highlighted was an undeniable homicidal intent that man was brimming with, before he even met his opponent.

Meanwhile, on mankind’s side, someone was struggling to regain composure.

“Well, the fact that he’s so scary means he’s very strong! In a sense, we’re lucky to be in his hands.”

“You fool!” A Wallachian soldier petrified with his gaze whoever had dared to speak so lightly, then he walked to him. “The fear Dracula strikes into men is not merely strength… let me tell you what you’d call a horror story…”

_ **June of 1462, Ottoman campaign in Wallachia.** _

_Sultan Mehmed II was furious beyond any limit after his former brother-in-arms, Vlad, who’d been placed on the throne of Wallachia by his will, refused to pay the submission tax to the Ottoman Empire._

_So, with an exaggerated army compared to what small Wallachia could boast, the Turks marched over the Danube to crush once and for all the ones who hadn’t totally bowed to their power._

_The night of the 17th of June, the Sultan’s campground was attacked by an incursion, and because of this they now marched directly towards the Dragon’s castle, in Târgovişte._

_The Sultan marched at sunrise with the strongest of his men behind him, and at dawn their armors shone like a sea of gold._

_“My Sultan, why do you think Dracula was such a fool as to dig his own grave with this act of defiance?” a high official of his asked, on his horse._

_Mehmed stopped to wonder in silence, without directly answering._

_-Vlad… for ten years we grew up together at my court. You fought like a Turk, prayed like a Turk, talked like a Turk… I respected you like a Turk. And you, even though you’d been sold to us as a tribute, didn’t show hatred.-_

_While he thought about all of this, he reminisced his teen years spent training with the man who was now Voivode, but who he hadn’t seen since their departure, when his stay at the Ottoman court ended._

_-Has this hatred found its way inside you during these years of distance? But it would be unjustified, unnatural, impossible to…-_

_“My sultan!” An official’s call distracted him from his stream of consciousness, making him open his eyes after a long march in the company of his thoughts._

_“M-My sultan… we were not aware that there was a forest around Târgovişte.” A certain anxiety made the man’s voice tremble, and Mehmed became suspicious._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“The advance party said they’d found a forest, grown between the city and the castle where we think Dracula has been hiding. But… ever since we asked them to delve in it to collect more information, they haven’t come back.”_

_“Dead?”_

_“No, it is said they fled.”_

_The Sultan was shaken by that single word: -Fled?- he repeated, not believing it._

_He looked at the army of Janissaries behind him, the greatest soldiers ever forged on the Earth, who filled the ranks of the biggest, most dangerous army to ever march._

_-Trained warriors like them would never flee!- He spurred his horse, deciding to go for a desperate run towards the castle. His soldiers followed him, shouting, prey to the thrill, because they believed they would shortly slaughter their infidel enemies._

_ When they discovered what that forest actually was, not a noise came from them. The horses were still, the throats were choked, and every impulse had been cut off. Except for one: terror. _

_Those weren’t trunks, but pikes, and on them there were no leaves that waved in the wind, but so many corpses lumped in bloody mushes that they’d bent the wood, dyeing it red up to the base._

_More than twenty thousand men and women, but mostly Ottoman soldiers, impaled around and in every corner of an abandoned village, now purely meant for that grotesque show for a war no one wanted to fight anymore._

_The highest pike, that loomed over the town, was the nest of the officer he’d sent the year before to collect the tribute. All the bystanders understood that man had been kept alive for a whole year, only to be killed that exact day and exposed as a threat._

_Mehmed, at the feet of that corpse forest that seemed to grow and grow, swallowing him with its shadows and its dripping blood, realized two things that kept him up until his death._

_The first was that there was nothing left of the Vlad he used to know._

_The second was the most carnal, visceral, and overwhelming definition of monstrosity._

“Wh-what?” When the tale ended, the man, who had misinterpreted Vlad’s true nature, started backing off in fear.

“Twenty thousand people… impaled? A forest… of corpses? That’s absurd, something like that can’t exi-”

When he clashed against something behind him, judging from the metallic noise it produced, he was afraid of having bothered another soldier. However, when he turned around he didn’t see a joyous and strapping armored man like those of the Order of the Dragon.

Before him was a dark-skinned man in golden armor, trembling convulsively and uncontrollably, hugging his own shoulders and shrinking more and more.

“N-N-No! Nooo! Not him! NOT HIM!!”

The Wallachian soldier grinned: “He’s been shaking ever since…”

The crowd’s attention peaked again when the presenters returned to shouting in their microphones.

“And now, the gods’ fighter…”

His entrance was nothing spectacular, as if he were walking in a room full of familiar people: he smiled. But that smile, like everyone sensed, was so fake and despicable it could only belong to a devil.

“Mystery follows the story of he who, without any explanation, found himself inserted in the ranks of devils!”

A blanket of dark fog surrounded him as he took his place, on the other side of the cave but always under the audience’s eyes thanks to the giant holographic screens.

“As a deity, who would doubt his power? But, at the same time… who can claim to truly know him?” 

He fixed with nonchalance the tie of his suit, consisting of black pants and a shirt of the same color, covered by a red, sleeveless gilet. Dressed this way, it almost looked like he was parodying his opponent’s clothes.

As hair, long waves of curly, black wool went down his neck. Two long ears, bent downwards, poked out of it, along with a pair of backward-bent horns. His eyes, red like his opponent’s, were framed by long, beautiful feminine eyelashes.

“Surely the one who selected him for the tournament knows his strength, or else he wouldn’t be here representing the gods, in the third bout of the Ragnarok…!”

He was black as night, but at the same time he shone with a feeble, mysterious light, like the muffled glow of a candle in the dark. Such was his smile, of one who was surely plotting something.

That goat demon with the eyes of a tender lamb grinned like a wolf.

“Baphomet!”

The two fighters weren’t face to face, and thus they couldn't see each other directly, but before taking the field they’d seen each other’s faces on the screens.

“And so…” The demon’s mellifluous voice echoed in the cave.

“...you already knew it was me you were going to fight?”

Vlad sharply interrupted him, making his voice resonate in the galleries: “Shut up, monster!”

The demon’s fur curled funnily as he flinched, his eyes wide.

“H-Hey! Why so mean? We just met… it’s true that we'll shortly engage in a deadly battle, but I don’t see any reason why we-”

“You’re a demon that lives in hellish flames” Vlad overpowered him once again, speaking with a calm and flat tone, that nonetheless didn’t hide his dangerousness.

“A charmer that uses their magic to destroy man, and not for nothing today you’re an enemy to mankind. It’s ME who doesn’t see any reason why I should fall into confidence with you, blasphemous being.”

Baphomet stayed silent for long, surprised. 

Then he showed everyone how his big lamb eyes had welled up with tears, and he started bleating:

“Too much! Too mean, Vlad! These words hurt here!” And he pointed at his heart so strongly he pierced through his chest with one of his long, black claws.

Vlad squinted his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

“Be patient, and when the starting fanfare plays, your life will end.”

“Oh…” the demon murmured with a sarcastic smile, feeling safe in the shadows.

“LET THE RAGNAROK BEGIN!”

At that precise moment, Vlad kept his promise and sprinted in the tunnel in front of him.

“Not so quick!” What he didn’t know was that Baphomet had already anticipated his moves.

From the demon’s hands, two circles of pure magic were generated, with symbols as old as the world drawn inside. With only the imposition of these seals in front of him, a blow of black and purple flames came out, which lit part of the cave.

The flames obviously couldn’t touch Vlad from that spot, because there were too much distance and natural obstacles between them, nonetheless everything took an unexpected turn: the attack, just like a river that adapts itself to overcome any hurdle, slid into the nearby galleries, flowing in that web of tunnels and canals.

“As I imagined… a demon from flaming hell…” Vlad bitterly gruntled, as the flames suddenly surrounded him.

“What an attack, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcers belted out.

“Baphomet let his fire fill up all the galleries to reach Vlad from more directions!”

Indeed the voivode wasn’t fending against a frontal attack, instead he was surrounded by flames that would soon get to him. In that narrow space, he had nowhere to run to, as every escape route had been blocked by the flames.

Nonetheless, the annoyed expression on his face didn’t change at all.

He halted his run, but using inertia he let the spear slip away from his hand, grabbing it at the end of the handle. He made it spin quicker and quicker around him right as the flames were about to close around him.

“A sudden change of events!” St. Peter shouted, witnessing that breathtaking scene.

Vlad’s spear, elegantly rotated in the air even though it was a butcher’s weapon, seemed to catch the flames like a net would do with butterflies: this way, the fire swirled along with the spear around the man, without endangering him.

Visibly surprised, Baphomet smiled: “Even you would have been instantly charred by those flames… but you had so much nerve, Admirable!”

His voice, echoing in the tunnels, reached the voivode’s ears.

His face lit up: “The blood of the Dragon is something a demon like you can’t comprehend: it’s bravery, it’s vigor, it’s strength!”

He clenched his fist around the base of the spear, pointing it in front of him and throwing it with all of his power. The weapon, still wrapped in fire like an obscure meteor, bolted in the darkness of the gallery, disappearing from his sight.

The demon didn’t immediately understand the reason behind that move, but when he heard a whistle getting closer, he jumped backwards with a wince.

In the bat of an eye, his own attack had got to him, standing before him and overwhelming him like the sun against a planet.

“What a shame you can’t harm me like this.” He smiled, dissolving the fireball with a snap of his fingers. At that moment, and only then, he noticed what was hidden behind it.

Dracula’s eyes shimmered in the dark that had just fallen on the two of them, then only the tip of his spear shone as he downed it on Baphomet.

However, the demon dodged it at close range, but with ease. “Cute, really.”

Smiling, he leaped backwards, falling into a chasm he’d noticed before. The voivode’s first move was naturally following him with his weapon drawn, but too late he felt heat coming from beneath him. The hole was about to erupt flames towards him like a geyser, and from that spot, suspended mid-air and almost entirely swallowed by the earth, he couldn’t dodge them.

“That Dracula is done for! He’s fallen into the demon’s trap!” the gods cheered, ready to see the human fighter charred.

Meanwhile, hidden in the shadows with his two companions, the mysterious god watched the scene, not at all involved like the others.

“What’s up? You don’t feel involved enough after Ramses died?” Phobetor asked him with a malicious smile.

“On the contrary, I’m betting it all on Vlad…”

“Then why don’t you seem interested?”

The god cut him off “Now… now.” He pointed at the battlefield. “This is the moment I was waiting for!”

Ammit lazily put his chin on his hand with a forced smile: “Ah, yes! The moment he reveals his Weapon. Out of curiosity, what Sephirot is it?”

Although Vlad was about to be struck by a flame eruption, he didn’t alter at all his ice mask.

With superhuman alertness he swirled the spear to point its tip downwards, then he grabbed it with both his hands and put a foot on the pole to make it steadier. Surprisingly, when the flames touched the summit of that pyramidal tip, they swung open like a fan. That way, the human precipitated into the chasm, dividing the flames in the middle without getting hurt, landing on the ground that cracked under the weight of his weapon.

Baphomet, who’d watched the scene from the distance, was so impressed he let out an admired whistle.

“S-So it’s that, huh…” His voice cracked, making him bleat like a lamb. “Your Weapon to k-kill gods… how about you let go of it? Looks like cheating to me!”

Even if Vlad wasn’t touched by that pitiful speech, the demon tried to use some distractions to catch him off guard: jumping sideways he grabbed a stalagmite and threw it against his opponent.

The voivode raised an eyebrow, more disappointed than surprised: he’d immediately seen the demon creating a fireball to throw at him after the first attack.

With disarming ease, he lifted his spear and that was enough to pulverize the rock, then he dissolved the flames with a lunge. An explosion of heat generated between him and the demon, which lit up the narrow cave they’d fallen in.

“It didn’t even get scratched.” Now Baphomet had an extremely concentrated look on his face, his pupils reduced to two dots to sharpen his sight.

“I mean the tip of your spear. It’s its power, isn’t it?”

“A spear that doesn’t break?” Ammit asked, but the mysterious god shook his head.

“No, and even Baphomet understood it. The power the Sephirot Yessod, Fundament, channeled in the spear is… the **Absolute Pierce**.”

With the ability to pierce anything, the voivode’s weapon could stab the hardest material in the world without damaging its tip. In the same way, thanks to the air movement it generated, it could break the molecular ties of fire and disperse it.

“Absolute pierce, then.” Baphomet giggled slyly. “Being a power made to contrast those like me, I guess if I were to get hit I’d die instantly. I dare not imagine what kind of injuries it could cause… you’re a real sadist, Vlady!”

“Shut up!” the Wallachian roared, abruptly interrupting him in his first, actual emotional outburst.

He raised his weapon, pointing it against his foe.

“I’ve sworn on the power that’s been given to me that I’d put an end to your existence right now, you monster!”

The demon thoughtfully caressed the hair on his chin, his arms crossed.

“You really are obsessed with that word: monster here, monster there! Are you obsessed like bigot prey of mystical paranoid delusions, or is there more to your character?”

“Obsessed?”

Vlad stretched his legs, crouching down to concentrate all his muscle, ready to snap like a spring. “Am I obsessed with killing all of you monsters, hellish demons? Of course I am! You represent all evil in this world, the shame that stained man’s heart! Sin was born with a devil, and because of devils like you the world could end!”

This time, Baphomet had nothing to answer: he was preparing himself to receive an attack that, even before it was struck, unleashed an immense wave of homicidal intent, capable of anchoring him to the ground with tension.

“ **Saint George and the Dragon!** ”

With that feral shout, Vlad bolted straight ahead, and the surrounding space seemed to be dragged with him: the ground molded like clay, then it got wiped away, while the stone retracted like tidal waves.

Despite that lunge faster than sound, Baphomet was expecting it and was able to recognize the exact moment to avoid it. As he dodged the attack, he felt the sonic boom shake the air.

At that moment he realized with awe that the attack wasn’t over yet: Vlad, although he’d reached his maximum range with his limbs and his weapon, used all of his reflexes and the elasticity of his muscles to twist his wrists. That way the weapon, along with all the air it had moved, twirled like a drill.

The demon couldn’t in any way predict that strategy, so even though he’d gotten away from the weapon’s tip, he was sucked in the vortex like a fly in a tornado.

-It was a trap!- He felt trapped, powerless, and too small compared to the giant hurricane that threatened to tear him apart.

Confiding in all his precision, he stretched his hands forward as if he were protecting himself from a fall, but from those he generated a strong blast of flames. The fire didn’t even reach Vlad, being captured by the vortex, but it wrapped the weapon. When Baphomet touched first his own attack, then the voivode’s deadly spear, he controlled it so that the flames would push him away.

At the end of that action, which lasted less than a second, he was flung away unscathed, but he’d been closer than ever to death because of a mistake.

As he started panting, time seemed to have stopped. All he could focus on was the impenetrability of Vlad’s icy gaze.

“But…!” An old painter exclaimed, dressed in a red vest and a grey hat. “That’s the legend of my painting!” The renaissance painter Paolo Uccello recognized the name that had been given to that attack, which he’d chosen for a painting of his.

“Indeed, it’s from the same time as him…” He thought, then stopping to look at the battlefield through a new perspective. “A knight with a spear who fights a dragon… symbol of the devil…”

“But… doesn’t Dracula mean Son of the Dragon?” a human asked, to which another responded.

“I heard it could also mean Son of the Dev-” Before he could finish pronouncing that word, a Wallachian soldier interrupted him, making him go pale as a corpse.

“Shut! Up!” he said in a smothered whisper. “The voivode Dracula hates that interpretation to death! Even he’s lost count of all those he got impaled until they stopped saying it…”

-Because of a devil like me, sin was born…- Those words still resonated in Baphomet’s head, while he was still suspended mid-air, waiting to land far away from his opponent.

Something in his brain told him to change his defensive strategy, and that something erupted from his brain in the shape of a small, unperceivable grimace of rage.

“ **Hellfire** **!** ”

Snapping his fingers several times, he created a flurry of small fireballs that landed on Vlad like small meteors. For the first time since the beginning of the bout, the demon had attempted a blind attack, without following any tactic if not the opponent’s utter annihilation.

The voivode, who’d kept his guard up, spun his weapon to vanish those attacks like a blow on a candle.

-Shit.- For this, Baphomet could blame no one but himself, when he saw all his efforts nullified. He grinned, buckling up for the worse.

“ **Kazıklı Voyvoda** **!** ” This time Vlad leaped forward to support his deadly lunge aimed at his opponent with his body weight, becoming some sort of bolt that pierced the air, shining with his own light.

Baphomet couldn’t even defend himself, because the spear hit him in his overwhelming and ruthless spin.

The attack didn’t end there, and continuing on its unstoppable trajectory it tore most of the cave wall in two. The battlefield crumbled on itself, generating clouds of dust and sand that obscured the sunlight. In the grey half-light, between the gruesome silhouettes of the stone columns embedded in the ground, the explosive roar echoed on and on for what seemed like infinity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> And here we are in the third fight! Would you have expected these two fighters? So, starting from the references: Vlad's appearence is taken from Dracula of Castlevania (Netflix serie), instead for Baphomet I find this fanart, modified vy me, of Pina (Beastars), a good example of how should it look: https://i.ibb.co/DYdQqN0/Ro-R-Baphomet.jpg  
> While the title comes from the lyrics of the Second Aways song: "Dissent".


	10. My Crusade

** Chapter 10: My Crusade **

“And with a second attack, Vlad III hit Baphomet once again!” Adramelech screamed, holding onto the microphone with all the heat he had. The other announcer followed him: “A single hit, but devastating like few! With the power Vlad has, it’s not a gamble to say that… it could even be…”

Meanwhile, on the highest rows of the grandstands, one of the organizers of the tournament didn’t seem touched at all by that fuss. It was the demon lord Baal, with his big, horizontally elongated head resting on his palm.

“I thought you’d be more involved” a voice from behind tried to provoke him.

Ptah, the Egyptian goddess of creation, got close to him and laid a hand on his throne. They both were looking at the arena, but with little to no interest.

“Why?”

“It’s a demon from your legion, so if he lost, the responsibility would fall on you.”

Baal answered with a skew smile, which was supposed to be a grin, but looked like something sicker: “I could say the same about the previous bout with that… Ramses! He lost, didn’t he? Don’t you feel upset?”

A glimpse of hesitation appeared on the goddess’s face, caught off guard by the demon lord’s behaviour, which conveyed nothing but danger. However, she didn’t answer, seeing Baal go back to his careless expression.

“Anyway… Baphomet is not from my legion. He’s never been a fighter, or anything.”

“What?!” Ptah was surprised at that point. “Isn’t he a demon soldier?”

“Not at all! For this reason, a lot of my subordinates got mad when I chose him.”

“Then… why did you choose him?”

Baal sharpened his big eyes contoured with black, growing serious: “Among the chosen gods, a lot of them don’t feel hatred towards mankind, they merely see them as ants to stomp on… they underestimate their potential, they don’t fear them, and one could easily say they barely know them. But Baphomet… he knows them really well, and he sure has a reason to hate them.” 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” At that moment a scream shook the arena. The presenters were obviously the first ones to notice it, but when the holographic screens broadcast the scene, all the spectators were left open-mouthed with awe.

Vlad himself hesitated, seeing himself overwhelmed by a gigantic shadow.

“The match isn’t over at all!”

All the debris fallen from above suddenly rose, forming a mountain floating several feet off the ground. Beneath it, Baphomet pointed at it with his index finger, showing a fatigued smile as he got back up.

“The ground! You’re…” The voivode forced himself to speak, in spite of a lump that closed his throat “...lifting it with your magic powers! So they weren’t confined to flames!”

The demon let out a freeing laugh. “You’re not the only one who has an ace up his sleeve, Vlady!” He widened his eyes, hardening his face in a fatal expression: “And now, die!”

“ ** Furnace of Hell ** !”

Controlling it with a simple effort of the mind, he threw the enormous pile of rubble on his enemy, but not before covering it in black flames. That pyre, similar to a star of destruction, overwhelmed the voivode in the bat of an eye.

Vlad roared through his clenched teeth: “It’s quick…!” He then used all his superhuman reflexes to lift his spear and lunge, as he pondered which point of the rock he should hit to stop the attack.

-I can’t hit it more than once! What if a blow dispersed the flames, but didn’t destroy the rock? I’d die! How can I… how can I pierce…?!-

Once again he added to a simple lunge, aimed at the peak of that mountain, a flick of the wrist: with an acceleration of an incalculable fraction of second, the spear became a drill again. When it met the rock, through the flames, instead of piercing it it drilled through it, generating a whirlwind that dissolved the fire.

“ ** Devil’s Den ** !”

He couldn’t predict it: Baphomet's satisfied grin was something he could only sense, because what happened under his eyes had surely been forged with all the wickedness in the world.

Before he could destroy it, the mountain opened like a maw, revealing a nucleus of black flames inside. Vlad could barely perceive the fleeting glow of fire, before the heat explosion cracked the stone and reached him.

That bomb hidden in the first attack had caught him off guard, as his opponent had planned.

-Your attacks can pierce through anything… but your weak point is still the same: between a lunge and the other, you must retract your arm, and at that moment you’re as defenseless as any other mortal!- Baphomet thought, basking in the success of his strategy as he was praised by the gods.

“An attack inside an attack! Who would have said Baphomet newly discovered power would result in such a strategy?!”

After the demonic announcer finished talking, with his microphone turned off his angelic colleague asked him: “Adramelech, are you really sure we know nothing about Baphomet? After all he’s done, and after he resisted a god-killer attack, I can’t believe he’s not part of Baal’s demonic legions! He proved he’s much stronger than any other demon soldier!”

The other announcer stopped to ponder, taking that question seriously.

“Even if I’m not a fighter demon, as Chancellor of Hell I spend my life seeing all kinds of demons, thus I know all of them, from the nobles to the warriors. But Baphomet… the only time I saw him walk through the gates of hell was when he arrived.”

“Really? He entered hell and never got out? So he can’t be a warrior, or a demon that’s gone down in history… then why the hell, pardon me, is he this strong?!”

“I don’t know… I only know that, when I saw him for the first time, he told me something that gave me chills…”

_ “I-I… I shouldn’t be here!” _

“He had dismay in his eyes, as if he truly couldn’t understand why he was in hell! I had never encountered a demon like that before…”

_ ** What history chose not to tell: about December 1447. ** _

_ After the Hungarian invasions to conquer Wallachia, the Ottomans had consented to release prince Vlad and let him go back to his father’s court. _

_ Those nights, Târgovişte swarmed with ghosts and spirits, as the fear of being defeated by an enemy was omnipresent. Only the heir to the throne, even though he was in danger, slept soundly now that he’d reunited with his parents after years of captivity as a political hostage at the Sultan’s court. _

_ But one evening, one lit by a red moon that painted the sky vermilion, a chilling scream tore the silence of the castle. _

_ When the guards outside the Dragon’s room, Vlad III, got in, for a moment they believed to have entered a butcher’s room: the rulers’ guts hung from the four-poster bed, while the blood had stained everything from the walls to the candid blankets, up to where a human body, the only one with breath in its body, was crouched trembling. _

_ The young Vlad III was promptly assisted by the men, as the other realized just how brutally his parents had been murdered. _

_ “Prince Dracula! Was it an assassin?! A Hungarian assassin?” they asked him, but he shivered too much to answer, freezing from head to toe. _

_ “Monst…” Finally a whisper came out of his lips, his voice so broken it was barely comprehensible. _

_ He made an effort with all his strength to repeat himself, while his eyes were lost in a dimension of fear they’d never come out of: “It was the monsters…” _

Tears wetted the present Vlad’s face, turning him into a completely different person from what he represented before. Still and unmoving, but shivering, giant and statuary, but shrunk in an almost fetal position: the antithesis of the warrior, of the brutal, and obviously of mankind’s saviour.

He laid in a pool of his own blood, his armour in shambles, hugging his spear like a child would do with a plushie.

“D-Dracula…” Trying to call for his name, the soldiers of the Order of the Dragon hoped they could change something. Nothing happened, because that person didn’t respond anymore.

Baphomet stepped forward, making the voivode flinch in fear.

“Vlady, Vlady… I expected more from someone who’d claimed so dramatically that he was going to kill me…” The demon’s shadow stretched for several feet, swallowing the man. The figure was deformed, with big bat wings and sharp horns.

“ ** Solve et Coagula ** !” Rolling up his sleeves, he uncovered two tattoos that read the same words he’d just pronounced, one per arm. At the same time his arms were covered first by a layer of stone, and then by black flames.

“Oh, irony… A man whose name is Son of the Devil intended on killing someone who isn’t even a demon, calling me a monster moreover… I wonder if you really know what monsters are.” When Baphomet loomed over the voivode in all his morbid deadly aura, on his face a smile opened, too wide to be human. 

“I’m ready to show you… the actual monster!”

“Get away from me!!”

It was a shout, then a snap: an instinctive defense movement, sprung from a sense of self-preservation and fear of death. Vlad had lifted a hand from the ground, throwing dust to keep his distance from the enemy, but a moment later his vision was tinged with blood.

That colour had flooded it, staining his pale face, and now dripped down his cheekbones.

“T-That…!” Even the announcers’ voice choked, astonished by that unexpected move.

Only one of the spectators wasn’t perplexed at all, and welcomed that scene with a grin instead.

“You… were waiting for this moment, weren’t you?” Ammit understood, looking at the gleeful mysterious god.

He didn’t answer, but he looked relaxed - or better, delighted - as he cracked his neck.

He’d just witnessed grains of sand being thrown by Dracula as little bullets against Baphomet, and piercing through his skin as they touched it, puncturing it with several tiny holes. The demon, powerless and with his eyes still wide, fell dead-weight backwards.

“You all thought the power of the Sephirot Yessod was limited to the spear, but… actually, Vlad can grant an incomparable piercing ability to anything he touches!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check in tomorrow for the next chapter, and also check the story's official discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	11. I Can't Drown My Demons, They Know How To Swim

**Chapter 11: I Can’t Drown My Demons, They Know How To Swim**

“The match… is over!!” St. Peter belted out, seeing Adramelech on his side sigh, annoyed.

“In this battle with concealed weapons, Vlad III surely prevailed by keeping his winning card hidden until the very end! And now…”

It wasn’t something everyone could comprehend, but Baphomet’s corpse exhaled a kind of deadly atmosphere that threatened mayhem and alerted everyone who could sense it. Soon, everyone was able to witness the incredible: the demon got up from the ground without actually moving a muscle, and when he got back on his feet in front of his opponent, he was the most surprised one.

Despite the blood and the holes on Baphomet’s clothes and wool, there was no sign of injuries on his flesh.

“Peek-a-boo!” the demon whispered, but Vlad had got away with an impressive leap already.

“Y-You can regenerate your wounds?!”

Baphomet winked, waiting for his opponent’s next reaction.

He screamed: “Stay away from me, I said!” and as he landed, he whirled his spear and threw all the nearby stone fragments at his foe.

The stone spikes, however, weren’t effective, and although they pierced through him from side to side, he kept on walking as the holes in his body closed.

“I don’t get what you’re afraid of. Maybe… of the monster, am I right?”

** “Kazıklı Voyvoda!” **

Vlad dashed along with the strongest attack he had against his enemy, but Baphomet didn’t bat an eye.

“Why be afraid of a monster if you can kill it? No… you’re afraid of something else.” He crouched with perfect timing, letting the lunge slide above him, then he opened his arms: he’d got into Vlad’s guard and there was nothing he could do about it.

He simply let inertia bring his opponent close enough, then he girded him. Vlad stopped abruptly, impressed by the herculean strength that had stopped his charge.

-From this position I can’t even… stab him with my spear!- He flinched, feeling all his faith disappear in that death embrace.

** “Sheol!” **

From the demon’s arms, stone spikes branched out, breaking what was left of Vlad’s armour and penetrating his flesh. The voivode clenched his teeth to resist the urge to scream, as his face became light red and his eyes seemed to swell so much they could pop out of the eyelid. He felt he was exploding from the inside, as his blood was set on fire and every cell of his skin burnt.

“Ladies and gentlemen! This time the attack looks deadly!” the chancellors and announcer yelled, this time agreeing on what to say.

“A true demon’s attack” Baal grinned, satisfied, observing Baphomet seize victory for him.

Meanwhile, at the presence of the mysterious god an unwanted and sick presence had appeared: Gaea, Mother Earth.

“How does it feel, losing for the second time?” she whispered, bending down to speak with a mellifluous voice right in her interlocutor’s ear.

He squinted his eyes, tensing up. In the meantime, the goddess went on: “This time there were no surprises, but I’m curious to find out whether you have any other gods on your side… because, from the next bout, you’ll surely need them to recover. And I’ll find out all of them! All…”

“Shut up!” Being interrupted so rudely, Gaea’s face deformed in a horrendous mask of horror, but when she saw the god’s relaxed smile she was left astonished.

“You don’t want to miss the end of the match for this chatter, do you?”

When they brought their gazes back to the arena, they saw there wasn’t the end everyone had taken for granted.

Vlad, after fighting for long, let go of his weapon. Immediately everyone thought that, beaten by that torture, his mind had given in, but actually the fighting spirit wasn’t gone hadn’t abandoned his eyes at all.

With his free hands he bent over to grab Baphomet’s shoulders, as if he wanted to slip away from his grip. Obviously that wasn’t possible, but the voivode had a different plan: without the demon expecting it, he lifted his knees, hitting his arms in the point where they joint with the shoulders.

It was just a glow, then Baphomet didn’t feel his limbs anymore. His eyes wide with surprise, he saw how a regular knee-hit had been able to cut off clean his arms, which were sent flying in the air.

“This is the true…” Dracula roared, erupting from his throat a terrifying scream that seeped instantly into the spectators’ nightmares.

** “...KAZIKLI VOYVODA  ** (Impaler Voivode) **!!!”**

“The piercing power…” Gaea stuttered, incredulously observing the scene, “...he can give it to his body too?! He’s a living weapon!”

Even this time, the mysterious god didn’t answer if not with a smile.

Now at the peak of his homicidal potential, Vlad didn’t waste a second and rushed onto his enemy before he could regenerate. With a hand he grabbed his skull, diving his fingers in the flesh and almost shattering it on the spot, then he lifted him in the air as if he were a toy.

With his free hand he retrieved the spear from the ground, raising it upwards as he dragged Baphomet down. The demon was finally stabbed by the weapon he’d been fearing, being impaled on the ground. Without stopping, the voivode kept keeping his head still as he proceeded to grab his legs too.

From that position he stretched out his arms more and more, and while his muscles swelled, Baphomet’s stretched and then tore.

** “KAZIKLI VOYVODA!!” ** he repeated, shouting at the sky, while he was being drenched by jets of blood that poured onto him from the fountain Baphomet had become.

Those words were repeated by his warriors too, then from all mankind: it was a cry of victory, a brutality that crushed the opponent in a survival war that was but an animal, beastly heritage. And at that moment the voivode’s figure looked really beastly, bathed in his enemy’s blood as he roared and wagged his limbs in the air.

However, he wasn’t the person everyone cheered for anymore. He wasn’t the hero, the defensor of Wallachia, the prince who’d fought for his people. Only the monster from the legend was being praised and incited, the most obscure part of history everyone feared and no one wanted to dig up.

_ “What do you mean monsters...?!” the guards asked, not sure they’d heard the prince’s words correctly. After all, he had to have gone crazy to say something like that. Despite this initial conviction, however, a shiver went down their spines too. _

_ “Yes, the monsters…” Dracula then answered, looking up. _

_ He’d brought his hands to his face, staining his cheeks with blood up to his eyes, while his lips were surrounded by that same liquid, coming from the teeth that had fed on the most horrendous meal that night. _

_ “The monsters… inside of me!” _

_ “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” The Tempest, William Shakespeare. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check in tomorrow for the conclusion of the fight, and also check the story's official Discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	12. My Crusade (Final)

**** ** Chapter 12: My Crusade (Final) **

“Here’s… the… monster…!” Vlad didn’t know if it was Baphomet’s butchered body that spoke, or one of the hallucinations that haunted his mind whenever he unleashed that part of him.

“Hell is empty! Hell has been emptied! And whatever was inside is now here… in your heart!”

However, he didn’t care, because all he wanted was to turn that being into mush: he threw the lower half of his body into the air, then smashing it with his head after he turned it into an all-piercing bullet thanks to his Sephirot. Lastly, he aimed his spear, with which he’d impaled his body, at the two pulverized halves of his body, so every single part of Baphomet’s body had been turned into dust in the still atmosphere of the crumbled cave.

“Ladies and gentlemen! The end of this bout has come! And the winner is… on mankind’s side…”

“...none other than Vlad III Ţepeş, the Impaler Voivode!”

The grandstands crowded with humans shouted in triumph, announcing to the world their second victory and their lead on the gods: at that moment, they’d got significantly farther from extinction.

“So, Gaea?” the mysterious god asked Mother Earth, finding her silent and impassive like a statue. “What’s up, you don’t want to talk anymore? I’ll spare you the effort of searching for my supporters, since I have the lead… it’d be unsportsmanlike, wouldn’t it?”

Meanwhile, in the arena, someone who wasn’t touched at all by victory was agitating. Vlad, in fact, was still fighting against that homicidal urge that he struggled to pacify, making him wish for more blood, flesh, and death.

-No! I’m not like this!- He stumbled, almost falling to the ground. -I am… the winner, and I won for mankind! I killed… the devil…- Then his legs gave in, as was expected after all the blows he’d taken. Luckily, he’d retrieved his spear to support himself.

Curiously, he’d fallen to his knees exactly in the spot where he’d hit Baphomet in full for the first time, with dust grains. He contemplated on how he’d found out about his regenerating power, the second ace up his sleeve after earth-bending, as well as fire-bending.

-Actually… I didn’t find out his powers…- Although his mind wasn’t clear, this thought made its way inside of him. He retraced the flow of the battle, ignoring the attacks he’d received or struck, focusing on the events instead. The chronological order seemed to be marked by some leitmotif, a common point.

The shadow at his feet grew, sporting a pair of wings and extending a pair of horns towards the sky. His eyes were red, like the voivode’s, that suddenly opened in the dark. That wasn’t his shadow.

Light lit the cavern when a fire meteor slammed into Vlad, overwhelming him with the burning intensity of a thousand suns. A tremendous shock wave shook the foundation, vaporizing the nearby ground. Smokey embers floated around in the air, soaring up high now that there was no stone ceiling to contain them.

The battlefield, visible beneath the tribunes, was boiling with heat and pestilential fumes.

“What happened?!” the soldiers of the Order of the Dragon exclaimed, not less scared than the rest of mankind after that terrible explosion.

Even the presenters were baffled, not being able to describe what they’d seen.

“That wasn’t… Baphomet” the mysterious god flinched, not being able to see Gaea’s smirk widen in excitement.

-No! His body was pulverized… whoever attacked Vlad… comes from the outside!-

In the shadow, Fenrir’s chains rattled, ready to intervene as he’d done with Gilgamesh: “Another intruder.”

“No!” A voice boomed in the colosseum, paralyzing the universal agitation of gods and humans.

Baal had jolted out of his throne, and was now looking at the spectators from the highest place in the grandstands. When he drew his eyes back to the arena, he had no definite expression: he was serious, but restless at the same time.

“Who intervened didn’t break any rules, because it’s…”

“Congratulations, Vlady.”

At the spot where that explosion of flames had come from, two still figures challenged the heat, as if it didn’t threaten them at all.

The voivode had now lost his armour, melted by the fire, and ashes dirtied his cadaverous pale skin. Although he was coughing up blood, because a stone spur originated out of nowhere to impale his chest from behind, he still had impressive liveliness in his eyes: he was challenging death, fighting for his life, and to continue that duel.

Behind his back, in fact, he’d managed to stab with his spear the neck of an unexpected opponent, who revealed themselves to everyone once the smoke had cleared.

Baphomet, without any wounds except for the weapon that now pierced his throat from side to side, was smiling wickedly.

“You managed to uncover my trick in time! Hadn’t you stopped my charge, you’d be smokey ash by now...”

“I finally understood what you are” the man answered, speaking with a distant and alienated voice, maybe because of the pain that was making him go crazy. The demon, however, understood that he wasn’t speaking to a madman, he’d stopped believing it after he’d responded with fulminous reflexes to his surprise attack.

“You never presented your powers…until after I’d announced them.”

_ “Y-You can regenerate your wounds?!” _

_ “The ground! You’re… lifting it with your magic powers!” _

_ “You’re a demon that lives in hellish flames.” _

“Those were my convictions, and from them you drew your powers… while the ones from before were just tricks to make me believe you had more and more powers. You… can make words, wishes, and hypotheses come true.”

“You’re right: to lift the rock the first time I used flames so small that they were invisible, but then I didn’t have to anymore, because thanks to your conviction I gained the ability to control the ground. But… how did you know?”

“The blood…” Dracula pointed at the red puddle, not far from thim. “When I shot those rock fragments at you, they didn’t pierce through you from side to side like they should have done, because you probably managed to control them and block them at skin level… then, you produced iron-rich sand to trick me into believing you could heal even from deadly wounds.”

He took a break to breathe in, feeling his strength abandoning him: “And my first conviction…  _ was that you’d taken the field _ . But it was another make-believe.”

The demon burst out laughing, delighted.

“Do you see you’re so much more than the stereotype you pretend to be?”

“I… have to kill monsters.”

“You’re talking to yourself. There are no monsters in this world.”

“SHUT UP!! You just want to trick me into believing this lie!” The man’s candid skin was covered by dark veins, which formed a net around his blood-spurting eyes.

Summoning all the wrath he had in his body, he grabbed the extremity of the spear protruding from Baphomet’s neck with both hands, throwing him forwards. The head was inevitably chopped off, but another one instantly grew on the flying corpse.

-But… if you would just believe me, you could make this wish come true- the demon thought in the meantime, closing his eyes and indulging in a utopia he could never turn into reality.

-But actually, none of you humans wants to stop believing in monsters, right?-

_ ** After the end of the Crusades. ** _

_ The shapeless god, sad and lonely, had finally come out in the daylight after a long night to talk with the only ones who’d finally accepted him. _

_ Firstly, when the folk had brought him those knights with a red cross on their chest, he felt fear. It was never a good thing when someone new or inconsiderate discovered his power: he was so powerless he couldn’t control it, so he always ends up being used by evil men.  _

_ He didn’t want to cause suffering to anyone, he just wanted to make people happy. _

_ Luckily the Templar Knight appreciated his good will, and he was very happy to grant every wish of theirs. They were upright, they wanted the best for everyone, and wished to elevate themselves to a superior, ever-growing understanding of things. _

_ One day they stopped coming. The other men informed him they’d gone back where they came from. _

_ He missed them so much he had to look for them. A small part of him believed that when he’d see them again, they would thank him again and again because every wish of theirs had come true. _

_ He was wrong. _

_ He saw those same men victims of inhuman tortures in their motherland, and from their bloody mouths poured accusations against him, the god who had tempted them and brought them away from their faith. They called him Baphomet, and so he became. _

_ Invisible, just the phantom of a story condemned to heresy, he saw the world hate him without even proving his existence. _

_ He wanted to disappear, but everyone believed in him, so his existence became hatred. Forced to grant every wish, that god who was unable to die comprehended he had unwillingly sacrificed himself to embody pure evil:  ** Your Belief ** . _

_ A lot of people were called martyrs, others messiahs, but he, who’d done the same deeds with innocence and benevolence, was labeled as a devil. Those canons, those words, and that sick faith crucified him to an archetype he was forced to represent forever. _

_ The god of desire, who only wanted the best for the world, became a demon and an enemy to mankind. _

-You humans… you know how to create something and then confine it to the shadows however you like, because you prefer to be guided by judgement… than by justice!-

“Monsters will keep on existing as long as you believe in them, Vlad! You yourself are a monster, a devil!”

Baphomet clenched his teeth: if that man wouldn’t believe in the good that laid in him, then he’d kill him to embrace that darkness he had to embody. Purple flames lit in his hands.

Meanwhile, Vlad took a deep breath, freeing a spray of blood from his mouth that stained his moustache. Part of his muscles were burnt and the wound on his chest was leading him to exsanguination. For someone like him, who’d experienced war and death in combat firsthand, that déjà-vu of suffering was as ironic as familiar.

-Familiar… for me, who didn’t find a family even in my actual family, just in the voices in my head that asked for more and more blood.-

He raised his spear, and a ray of sunlight reflected on the tip, like a torch of hope for mankind.

-Fine… I’ll admit it… I was wrong.-

His gaze went to the grandstands: humans he’d never know and people who, on the contrary, knew him better than anyone else were desperately crying.

-We humans can be monsters, sometimes.-

He remembered his father, who’d given him up to the Turks as a political hostage, the nobles he’d executed just to terrorize Wallachia and the opponent he’d impaled just to feed the legend of the Kazlıkı Voivod, the legend of Dracula.

-But this world is so beautiful, I don’t want it to disappear… I hope the man who saves mankind isn’t me, but…  _ if I can afford a wish _ …-

He turned the weapon upside down and aimed the tip at the stone spur embedded in his chest. He broke it, but its trajectory didn’t end there: the spear clashed against the ground so violently it shot the wielder up. The voivod flew in the sky, floating over the chasm in the clear sky.

-... _ if a monster like me can make a wish, too _ …-

With a hand open like a claw he scraped the stone, tracing the path that would lead him out in the sunlight, over everything and everyone.

“...I want to be a demon who does something good, once and for all!!”

Baphomet found himself basked in the brightness that now surrounded Dracula, about to land on him with that hellish scream.

Mankind held its breath, while the gods encouraged him to react.

The demon tried to dodge the attack as soon as he recovered from the shock, but to his surprise Vlad’s spear destroyed part of his body way quicker than he’d thought. In the bat of an eye only his torso, his upper limbs and his head were left.

-He can’t attack me now!- He thought about reacting in some way, but in the meantime he was sure he had the time to regenerate his legs before his opponent could charge another lunge.

Neither this prediction was right: even if the spear had already been used, Vlad had another weapon. Throwing the rock bullets he’d hidden in his hand, he turned Baphomet’s body to dust in an instant. Only the demon’s head was left.

Vlad abandoned the spear.

-I…!- In Baphomet’s eyes, the enemy’s shadow, which eclipsed the sun, was reflected.

-He and I... we’re both benign demons. It’s so beautiful to be killed in the best way possible.-

“ ** LUI DRACUL LEGEND ** !”

The voivod grabbed his foe’s head, then gaping his mouth and digging his fangs in the opponent’s neck. The Absolute Pierce, combined with the anatomic precision of the hit inflicted on a net of veins and nerves, was enough to make what was left of the renegade god of desire explode.

In a dance of light and dust, blood and death, the combination of everything that represented mankind’s victory was engraved in the spectators’ minds.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…!”

At the start, marked by the announcers’ voices, the human crowd blew up with a roar. In a union of joy and hope, they lifted their hand towards the sky and hymned their winning vanguard’s name.

“Vlad III Ţepeş won this match, beyond the shadow of a doubt! Victory goes to mankind!”

The Order of the Dragon was the one who shouted the loudest, waving their flags with the devilish dragon, that at that moment was a symbol of glory.

The gods, on the other side, couldn’t produce more than a screech, plummeted into silence and forced to bow their heads to the harsh reality.

From his throne, Baal put a hand to his face and then sighed: “You can’t imagine how sorry I am…”

Ptah maintained her composure, nodding: “Seeing a demon be killed is even rarer than the death of a god. That human really did the unthinkable.” The demon looked at her sneakily, in an indecipherable wait that inspired perplexity.

“You should’ve taken the field, then the plans changed last minute. How come?”

The Egyptian goddess of creation understood that he wasn’t referring to her: when she turned around, she saw a figure in the dark.

“I’m not interested in someone like Vlad…”

That voice. That voice surprised Ptah, or better, even though the emotion she felt in the beginning was surprise, it turned into something different right away. It was confusion, disorientation, insane desire to run away at all costs.

A tingling feeling went around her skin, as all her senses alerted to give her an imprecise order. It was pure madness.

“What I want is…” The figure stepped forward, accompanied by a gross slide of a soft body on the floor. Long tentacles slid everywhere. 

“Destroy mankind’s hope. Crush any hero, blow out the legend like a flame…”

That figure now loomed over the two superior gods, staying afar from the light. It was wrapped in a yellow cloak, and yellow was the hood that concealed whatever he had as a head.

“...corrupt the purest soul, dragging it into madness” hissed Hastur, the Yellow King.

Aside, hidden in a corner of the part of the arena reserved for humans, the three gods who’d opposed universal judgement laughed and celebrated.

“Another victory, not bad!” Ammit lazily smiled, rolling on his back. Phobetor nodded: “Sure, the head-to-tail doesn’t make me go crazy, but it’s better than another point to the gods.”

“Don’t worry” the mysterious god reassured him with a patronizing tone and a remarkable smirk. “The next bout will be an easy victory… seeing as the gods’ fighter is on our side!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third match is over! Were your predictions right? Who do you think will be the fighters for the next bout? Check the story's official Discord server to know when the fourth match is going to be published: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	13. Du Bist Im Labyrinth

**Chapter 13: Du Bist Im Labyrinth**

The news about the end of the bout had reached every nook and cranny of the enormous colosseum, including the most obscure and hidden crevices not even the gods were aware of.

Entering a dark room, Fenrir made his chains clink in the silence. The rattling sound of steel on the floor announced every appearance of his, because he’d never been a predator: ever since he was created, every part of him was voted to evil and destruction. It was impossible to guess, but the secret of his past lay in various scars all over his body that had suddenly started aching.

He brushed his mouth, as his eyes sharpened in a disdainful expression.

“Prometheus…”

Actually, the room he’d entered was never completely dark: in the shadows a single candle was lit, able to partially illuminate the still, silent figure that had just been called.

Suddenly, the flame flared up violently, and even though it didn’t grow in size, the light it cast managed to lighten the surrounding space. Such magic surprised even the Wolf, making him flinch with surprise. When his sight got used to the room's lighting, he could fully recognize the figure in front of him.

He had the semblance of a man sitting in a chair, the only filler element in that empty space. His presence alone seemed to represent a sort of calm solitude, just like the candle that burnt beside him, unnoticed.

That being presented an extravagant detail that broke the harmony of his silence: he wore an elegant suit, white and immaculate like snow, but at the level of his belly that candid fabric was stained with red. It looked like he’d lost an unfathomable amount of blood recently, nonetheless, he didn’t look bothered. 

“Is it my turn? Fine.”

The Titan Prometheus bent his mouth to placidly express his happiness.

That simple smile of circumstance was enough to make an uncontainable wrath ramp up in Fenrir, who projected all of his homicidal intent on him in a second. That apparently unjustified action actually had a valid explanation: ever since he’d entered that room, the being that already presided at it had emitted an aura of oppressive danger. It was as if Prometheus was ready to kill him because he knew he would come to inform him, but he didn’t: simply, showing the kindest of his smiles, he seemed to be reminding him of the immense risk he’d taken. 

Fenrir, however, couldn’t react in any way, he had to follow orders from above and not act on a whim. So, even though Prometheus conveyed provocation and arrogance, he saw him walk down the aisle that would bring him to the arena, his head bowed and his tail between his legs.

-Exactly: fine. I couldn’t wait for this moment to come- the titan thought in the meantime, walking towards the outside. With newly-found joy, every movement of his looked like a graceful dance in the air.

-Humans… it’s been so long. What did you do with knowledge, culture, and curiosity? I’ve waited so long to know… but time has passed for you, too.-

When he closed his eyes, he could feel them all: humans of all times, gathered at that place, at the border of the universe, for a common goal. -Survive- the titan told himself, becoming serious all of a sudden.

-You’ve survived until today, fighting who knows how many battles against gods that, today and always, tried to clip your wings towards the future…- His hands clenched to form fists, contracting all his muscles in superhuman effort.

His gaze was animated by rage, a concentrate as bright as fire, but as dark as the abyss, which painted two crystal-clear eyes.

In that corridor, he wasn’t surprised to meet just who he wanted, a few steps away from where the light of the battlefield was waiting for him. What only he and that figure knew, however, was that there would be no battle. That knowledge gave him back his smile, and not a normal smile, but a smug grin.

“Prometheus, thank you again for making a deal with me” said the god who’d decided to betray his kind and was responsible for the existence of that tournament. “With your help, humanity will score another point and we’ll get closer and closer to the end of the gods.”

At that point, the titan interrupted him: “I made this deal with you not only with the extreme pleasure of checkmating the gods… but also for something that, I hope, you’ll understand perfectly.”

The other god waited in silence for an answer, preferring not to comment.

“I’m talking about love” Prometheus revealed in the end, caressing his face while his nostalgic gaze was being brought elsewhere: “Love towards humans. Hope for their future. Trusting that what I sacrificed myself for will lead them on the right path, always and however.” 

He touched his belly, and his fingers touched the bloody flesh where a wound never stopped reminding him who he had been.

“Sure” the other god nodded, stepping away from him. With a snap of his fingers, he made an esquire come, who gave the titan a red cape, fit for his massive size. Prometheus looked towards the end of that path he’d taken by chance right when he was at the peak of his hopelessness.

-The gods had already chosen me as a fighter for this tournament, not only because I’m the only titan they chose to keep alive until today, but also to submit me even more to their sadistic yoke: force me to fight to the death against a human?! How dare they? L-Luckily, nothing of this sort will happen… good… I’ll just surrender as soon as the match starts and, as all the gods willing to help out humans assured me, no one can force me to keep fighting.-

While he thought all that, his face, even though it could appear powerful and stoic, had repeatedly shifted emotions: awkwardness, relief, hatred, happiness. With a sigh he tried to tone the tension down, turning to his accomplice.

“What’s the name of the human I’m going to meet?”

The god readily answered his question, but obviously the titan didn’t show any reaction.

“And who would that be? When was he born, and why was he chosen to fight here in the Ragnarok?”

This time, too, he was answered, and his face displayed an emotion different from all the previous ones. While time around him seemed to have stopped, and his blood had become ice in his veins, his face contorted in a mask of horror and perdition.

It was right at that time that someone couldn’t wait anymore: the titan’s body was stabbed behind his back at shoulder height, between his right ribs. Something thin and small was shoved in his chest, piercing his suit and colouring the white with a small, red blossom that drenched the fabric. A trickle came out of it, which dripped up to Prometheus’s ankle, just like the spray of blood he’d spat from his mouth.

The titan felt a burning pain and wanted to react with all his strength, but whatever thing had been stabbed into his body was then removed, drawing a blood-red arch in the air. Red drops squirted out, with familiarity and grace, as if they’d been painted by a professional's brush.

Using his scalpel as if to lead an orchestra, a maniacally precise hand followed the hummed notes of a song that was echoing in that dark hallway:

_ “Oh, diese Sonne! _

_ Furchtbar steigt _

_ sie mir empor!” _

_ (Oh, this Sun! _

_ It rises fearfully _

_ before me!) _

A burst of nervous laughter, more similar to a cough, abruptly interrupted the melody.

“O-Oh, pardon me! It’s just that every time I think about how the trombones go off in the terzetto from the first act of _Der Freischütz_ … uh, I go in raptures!” Manifesting various ticks because of excitement, such as repeatedly snapping his fingers or biting his lower lip, the figure of the human who’d given the stole to the titan spoke with an energetic and trilling voice.

“But I was distracted, so, so careless… I couldn’t make up my mind on whether to take some liver and gallbladder, or play safe with a kidney. Well, at least I didn’t make an amateur’s mistake by stabbing on the left: even an idiot knows that, on the left side, you can’t reach the liver without bumping into a lung, or the stomach. Imagine what a mess it would have been if my scalpel was ruined by gastric acids! Eheh, what a dummy, really…”

Prometheus’s legs gave in as he, still in excruciating pain, pushed a hand on his side, backing off a bit in an attempt to defend himself from a hypothetical next attack. However, although he would have preferred to fear nothing other than another attack, what terrified him the most was the figure standing before him.

Still hidden in the shadows at that moment, the human kept on muttering to himself in that frantic, logorrheic soliloquy. His face was sharply cut by darkness, but a shining glow came from his eyes and his perfectly white teeth, showed off in a dazzling, shark-like smile.

One could see a grey-ish leather suit, a uniform with buckles and golden buttons, adorned by a black iron cross and a red band on one arm.

“What… d-does this mean?” Prometheus didn’t want to turn around to talk to the mysterious god, because he felt that if he were to look away, that creature would jump out of the dark to hit him one more time when he was vulnerable and defenseless. The visceral terror of a surprise attack had already made him shed several sweat drops in a few seconds.

“It means your match has started, Prometheus” the god’s voice answered, behind his back.

“Ladies and gentlemen! This time, something incredible is happening!” The announcers’ voices resonated throughout that gallery like a boom, amplified by the thick walls.

“The fourth bout of this tournament has... started before the two contestants even took the field!

Confirming that absurd situation, St. Peter and Adramelech made the spectators flinch in unbelief, watching the giant screens that now broadcast the entrance corridor to the arena.

There, before everyone’s eyes, the sight of the titan Prometheus, bent in two as he bled and backed off trembling from a cruel and dangerous threat lurking in the dark, was clear and sharp.

“Let’s belatedly introduce the representatives of the two sides!” the presenters hurriedly announced, caught off guard by that event.

“On the gods’ side… mankind’s benefactor, this time on the side of who wants to put an end to its deeds! The titan of wiseness and knowledge… Prometheus!”

“While, on mankind’s side: the most feared man on Earth during a war that turned several men into horror stories… but he was the most terrifying and despicable of all! Known as the Angel of Death… Josef Mengele!”

The man fixed his black hair on his forehead, brushing it on one side to appear perfectly on the broadcast. Then he welcomed his opponent by raising his right arm, and with the brightest of smirks: “ _Achtung_! The time for pleasantries is a waste for us: I heard you earlier, as you came to know my identity… you sly dog!”

“And now, let the Ragnarok begin!”

Differently from the other bouts, when their vanguard was presented no human cheered. Rather, the usual initial surprise turned into panic when they learnt the truth. The fame of the man who was fighting their battle didn’t cause respect, admiration, or anything, just rational dread: it was like observing a predator, fangs and claws ready, knowing that being could tear you to pieces anytime.

“No!” someone shouted in the human crowd, covering their face and contorting into a mask of horror. “How can such a monster represent mankind?!”

There was no answer, and that unrest grew to form a screaming, confused mass in the grandstands.

In the shadow of that cranny in the colosseum, the mysterious god had taken shelter to better watch the battle that would soon rage. As he saw the blood-stained curtains be drawn on that show, he couldn’t hold back a smile.

“Must there be a reason? Necessarily?” He looked at the gods’ tribune. “Do I really need a reason to use even the most treacherous and revolting weapon I have at hand?”

And up high, right where he was looking, a similar stir, but much more restrained, was taking place. A lot of gods didn’t know what Josef Mengele had done, but when they came to know they exploded in different reactions: laughter, grimaces of repugnance, disappointment, or rage. In any way, they expressed their justified disgust towards mankind.

“Ah-ah! You can only send murderers and disgusting criminals? Looks like you humans have nothing better to offer!”

As smug cackles flew around him, Erebus, the god of darkness, sat with his chin rested on his palm and a bored gaze. That revelation that added fuel to the fire didn’t touch him at all, making him more annoyed now that the noise echoed in his ears.

He sighed: “Oh, for the love of… when does it start?”

“I guess a god of darkness like you would be interested in such a match” a voice addressed him. It was a god popped up next to him, who smiled at him with familiarity before looking at the screens.

“I mean: the darkest wickedness against the light that illuminates reason! There hasn’t been such a duel since the end of the Middle Ages, don’t you think?”

“Sorry, but… do I know you?” Erebus interrupted the claptrap from Phobetor, the god of nightmares, nonchalantly. He hushed instantly, his voice still suspended.

“Phobetor! God of dreams, specialized in nightmares!” Trying to regain composure, he extended his hand forcing the brightest smile he could. Unluckily the other shook his head, looking away: “Doesn’t ring a bell…”

A vein started pulsating on Phobetor’s head: if only he wasn’t forced to look for allies among the gods, he wouldn’t have let that god from his same pantheon treat him like a fool.

“Maybe you’d understand if I told you that…”

“Phobetor!” a girl exclaimed, jumping in between the two of them. She had very dark veils that covered her body, candid and milky like the moon. Although she was half as tall as the god of nightmares, her sole serious and authoritarian presence was enough to put him on guard.

“Grandma!” he yelled, backing off, his hands in a defensive pose.

“Grandma?” Erebus repeated, uninterested until that very moment, now starting to ponder. “Wait, so he’s the son of your son, Hypnos, the god of dreams?” he asked his sister, who nodded.

“And he’s also a reckless guy who's giving me a lot of trouble!” the small girl furiously railed, grabbing Phobetor by an ear with unsuspected strength. “Go figure! He roams around wherever he wants and does his shenanigans, while I’m forced to stay in my pantheon’s tribune, listening to that creepy spinster Gaea that mutters about how she wants to kill him and his friends!”

“Classical boy stuff, then” Erebus yawned, receiving a snarl from the two of them: “Where in the world?!"

A voice coming from behind a box surrounded by a canopy interrupted their tiff. A figure in the shadow sat on an elevated armchair, and with the way he talked he projected his irrevocable authority on the bystanders: “Could you kindly be quiet, younglings?”

The god of Olympus, Zeus, caressed his beard, twisting the ends around his finger. His dry, mummy-like lips were twisted in a toothless smile: “I’m trying to enjoy the show! <3”

Nyx, the goddess of night, grumbled something about how Zeus was actually a lot younger than her, then she sat down. Not before dragging her nephew next to her, who’d become like a doll in her iron grip.

“You stay here and be good!” And with a feeble voice Phobetor answered: “Yes… grandma…”

Meanwhile, inside the corridor where that fourth match was taking place, the tension was so dense it could be cut with a knife’s blade.

And the blade of a scalpel was now cutting the air with rhythmic hits, following the pretentious imitation of an orchestra director by Josef Mengele: “Papapapaaan pan! Papapapaan pan! Papapapaan pan papapapaaan! _Walkürenritt_ , let the Valkyries come in!”

In front of that scene, so absurd it conveyed embarrassment, the titan still crouched in fetal position crossed his eyes, incredulous. He barely managed to say something in between his rattling teeth: 

“Why… why did you hit me from behind with such cruelty?”

In the inconceivability of Josef’s thoughts, asking that question was the only thing he felt he had to do. However, the answer he was given was the last one he wanted to hear.

“Boredom. Simple boredom.” And when the German’s voice started flowing like a river, the titan’s jaw shivered in a scared chill.

“I already know what you’re going to do, and even if I do not agree, I’m not going to try and change your mind… but at least let me have fun! However you want to end this match, I won’t be done with you until I’m satisfied.”

At that point, Prometheus’s perplexity ended: that human had hinted to his secret plan, the deal with the mysterious god: surrendering to terminate that match with another point to mankind.

Like a glass shattered by a bullet, shards of that conviction became ashes in the air under the titan’s powerless eyes. He seemed to have no choice.

“What do you mean… _have fun_?” His voice cracked.

“But of course! This opportunity is electrifying to me! I imagine this is how _Doktor Faust_ must have felt when Mephisto appeared before him and promised him a life full of emotions and pleasures…” The man lifted his head, stretching his neck upwards as if to receive some warming light.

“But it isn’t just fun for me, you know? It sure amuses me knowing that, in a way or another, whatever I do will benefit humanity, as I am a doctor… but medicine is science, research, and most of all teaching! I hope the spectators will learn something useful today.”

His face deformed in a cold, sharp smile became giant on the screens, paralyzing with fear even the less brave gods. Josef’s eyes shined now more than ever, in the darkness where he felt king.

“For example… how to dissect a god!”

But in Prometheus’s head whatever further worry had dissipated, because now only a never-ending thought resonated. -Teaching…- he repeated.

-A benefit to humanity…-

_ Eons and eons earlier, when humans had just started inhabiting the surface of the Earth, everything was shapeless and imperfect. While the gods, thrilled by their knowledge and superiority, faced their important matters up in the skies, the task of monitoring the human race was left to two brothers: Prometheus and Epimetheus. _

_ -And these human monkeys are so underdeveloped they annoy me…- The older titan brother, sat on a rock in the center of one of the first villages ever created, annoyedly observed all that life flowing around him. Humans seemed no more clever than a herd of sheep. _

_ For pure coincidence, when he looked at the pastures, he saw his brother Epimetheus among the cattle, followed by a group of laughing children. _

_ He thought back to when he was sent down there by Zeus, who had just conquered the Olympus. _

_ The strong and young god of gods sat on the throne as if it had always belonged to him, looking at the titan from above, who had his head low and a frustrated and beaten expression. _

_ “Come on, Prometheus… what are you whining about? Humans can be a lot of fun! And their women…” From Zeus’s nostrils, two blows of smoke came out, as usual for that pervert. _

_ The titan looked around: all the gods sitting at that reunion looked at him with sharp and accusing eyes, as if he’d committed the worst crime ever. _

_ -I don’t blame them…- he thought, compliantly -After all my father, Hiapetus, organized a coup d’état against Zeus’s new government with the other titans… but everyone knows the Titanomachy didn’t go well for them.- _

_ Tartarus: the hellish prison the old titans had been sent to to punish them, and where they’d often threatened to send him just because he was born titan, and not god. _

_ Going back to that confinement on Earth, Prometheus sighed and decided to go to his brother. _

_ Epimetheus never faced that situation, not even his existence as a titan, with the same anger and sadness as him: on the other hand, he was undoubtedly enthusiastic about dealing with someone who didn’t scold him, or didn’t judge him for what his father had done. Every time he saw a smile on his brother’s face, Prometheus secretly felt envious, unable to smile in whatever world he was forced to live. _

_ When he reached Epimetheus, almost identical to him had it not been for his ruffled hair and the thick beard on his round face, he was greeted in unison by all the bystanders. The children’s voices then went back to laughing at his brother, running around him or yanking him. _

_ At one point, while he was focused on contemplating the placid, insignificant village life, he distractedly heard a kid ask: “Epimetheus, what kind of mushroom is this?” _

_ “I don’t know, never seen it! But mushrooms are made to be eaten, like berries, aren’t they?” _

_ At that instant Prometheus abruptly turned around, alarmed, to see his brother lifting a livid red shroom to his mouth. _

_ “You cretin!” And with a slap, he took it away from him. His brother looked at him with big, teary eyes. _

_ “But why?” And all the kids too, about to cry, whined: “Why?” _

_ “What, is this a deal you’ve made? You cretins!” The older titan belted out, exasperated. Taking a deep breath, he tried to keep his calm. “That mushroom you were about to eat was poisonous. Not all mushrooms are edible, and neither are berries… look, this is how you recognize a poisonous mushroom.” _

_ And bending down on the ground he went on to explain all that he knew about nature. In the bat of an eye, not only Epimetheus and the kids, but also herders passing by, and then the whole village, had gathered around him in silent admiration, their eyes wide. _

_ “Wow…” his brother whistled, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re cool, Prome!” _

_ He didn’t have the time to respond, because all the humans nodded, complimenting him and thanking him. _

_ “What if… what if…” a little girl yanked his hand, blushing in embarrassment when he looked at her: “What if… Mr. Prometheus… taught us other things? Can he?” _

_ With cheers from kids and adults, they all hymned Prometheus's name. At one point they even lifted him, sending him up and down. _

_ -This is…- The titan was grateful that no one could see his face at that moment, because his cheeks had an unusual hue, just like the poisonous mushroom: -This is wonderful!- _

_ “Humans deserve to know more about the world!” he told Zeus, sometime later. _

_ The two of them were talking in private for the first time, since the titan managed to sneak into the gods’ garden while going for a night stroll. He’d interrupted him while he was urinating in a bush, drunk, but embarrassment didn’t dissuade him. _

_ They had been talking for a while now, sat on a bench, with the excuse that Zeus had to sober up. _

_ “So… are you having fun?” _

_ Prometheus blushed again. He hated when that happened, and lately it happened a little too often. _

_ “It’s not fun. It’s… satisfaction, completion. I feel as if I’m the creator of intelligence derived from my knowledge, from all the years I spent alone in the gods’ library… after my father…” _

_ “For short, you found someone like you” Zeus cut him off, giggling between one word and the other. Then he turned to him, and he didn’t seem drunk at all when he said: “I’m happy for you, you’re doing something wonderful.” _

_ He smiled. Prometheus smiled for the first time after… he didn’t even know. _

_ “So, how would you want to spread knowledge?” _

_ “Humans don’t know the gods! Although they were created by them, they have no idea you exist… of what you’ve done, the achievements, the battles. I mean, they don’t even know how the world they inhabit was born, or where the animals they breed come from. The only way to show them all of this is… with the flame of knowledge.” _

_ Zeus’s eyes lit with surprise, making him whisper with his lips tightened: “The Record of Ragnarok…” _

_ The flame of knowledge truly was the archive of the history of deities, from the creation of the universe to the creation of the Earth and so on. Every legendary match, every divine offspring, and even taboos like the death of some gods, all of that was registered in the embers of that fire that doesn’t burn and doesn’t die. _

_ “I…” Zeus yawned, stretching his back and flexing his biceps “...I don’t see any problems with that!” _

_ And at the umpteenth smile, Prometheus responded, his face red: “Thanks…” _

_ “You’re so cute when you blush, Prometheus! <3” _

_ “Shut up! Cretin!” _

_ Once he’d returned on the Earth, the titan was granted the necessary time to gather the humans and explain the situation to them, while Zeus in the meantime was holding a Divine Council to put that proposal to the vote. The god had wished him the best, convinced that whoever heard the voice of his pure heart would be persuaded. _

_ “You’re so… terrific, Prometheus!” his brother was telling him, fixing his white suit in front of a mirror. “The bestest!” _

_ “You can’t say bestest, Epimetheus” the older one smiled, playfully ruffling his hair. “But thanks!” _

_ “All this time you taught the humans so much stuff, while I…” Epimetheus abandoned himself on a chair. He was dressed smartly too, but for mere formality: he hadn’t been invited to the Council, he just had to explain the situation to the humans. _

_ Obviously that background role, joined to the discouragement of not feeling useful, made him sad. His brother recognized that expression: not feeling like you have the right to a place in the world. _

_ It was what he’d felt like for many, many years, while Epimetheus made an effort to smile anyway. He suddenly felt guilty for condemning to that condition the one he cared for the most, and who’d always been by his side. _

_ “I think that…” he cleared his voice, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. “I think you should go and speak at the Council in my place, you know?” _

_ Immediately Epimetheus panicked, stirring and blushing more than his brother: “W-Wha-What?! M-Me?! B-But I d-don’t even know…” _

_ “Of course you know... you cretin. You’ll say humans deserve to know more about history through the flame of knowledge. You know, the flame of knowledge?” _

_ The other nodded, hesitant. _

_ “Okay! If you think about it, the only thing that separates humans from gods is how much they know about the history of the world… but, between you and me, if humans knew the right things, they’d easily outpower those thugs.” He giggled, taking his little brother under his arm. “Is it clear? You’ll be perfect, I believe in you. We’ll gain permission to use the flame of knowledge!” _

_ So, that night, Epimetheus reached the hall of the Council and sat down on a bench before all the other gods of creation. He felt so under pressure he was sweating, ignoring Zeus’s hesitant glances, who wondered what had been of the deal he’d made with Prometheus. _

_ “Fine, we’re all gathered here…” the god of gods spoke loudly, interrupting disapproving buzzes. “...to let this youngling talk. So, Epimetheus, what’s your proposal to this Council?” _

_ The titan was paralyzed, caught by stage fright, which was as funny as terrifying in his situation. Straight and tense as a violin string, sweat framed his trembling lips. He spent so much time like that, the first peals of laughter could be heard in the silence, so Zeus thought he should chime in. _

_ “I…!” An exclamation, an affirmation of existence, or maybe it was simply the first thing that had crossed Epimetheus’s mind. The titan bowed his head, feeling the compelling urge to speak blossoming inside him: he wanted to be useful, he didn’t want to be a burden to his brother and to all the humans he felt tied to. _

_ “I want humans to know as much as gods! Some of them can know even more than gods! They deserve it, because… the history of the world is important, and they deserve to know it.” _

_ Ever since he pronounced the first words, the silence had become cold and heavy, as if an ice plate had fallen on the tribunes. Soon, a threatening and oppressive atmosphere loomed over Epimetheus, but he was so busy talking he didn’t notice. _

_ “For example… everyone should know how the Titanomachy went!” He’d mentioned the first historical event that popped up in his mind, but those few words were the last straw: in an already dangerous climate, about to break, it was enough to make the anger the gods were harbouring ramp up. _

_ “Bastard! How dare you?!” _

_ “Humans should know as much as us, and even more?!” _

_ “History of the Titanomachy?! What, are you planning on avenging your father?!” _

_ “I knew titans didn’t deserve to live! You’re all imposters and traitors!” _

_ The wrath that was storming the harmless titan overwhelmed him, crushing him and making him feel powerless. Desperate, between tears he tried to speak again and let his voice be heard, but no one listened to him. _

_ -I only wanted to…- He looked for Zeus’s approval, but he was powerless -...be helpful…- _

_ A proposal was made to execute the two titans, and it was unanimously approved. The father of Olympus, not being able to do anything, surrendered looking at the poor Epimetheus with sad eyes. _

_ “I’m sorry, Epimetheus. But… why?” he asked, getting close to him to get him back on his feet after he’d fallen to his knees crying. “Why didn’t you let your brother speak?” _

_ “Because I was busy!” With a roar, the door to the great hall was flung open. _

_ The titan Prometheus, dressed elegantly for the occasion, walked on the tribunes and reached Zeus and his brother. _

_ “And what kept me busy until now was… stealing the flame of knowledge and gifting it to humans!” His disdainful smile, paired up with those tremendous words, were enough to make all the gods flinch. _

_ Even Zeus, incredulous, faltered: “What did… you do?” _

_ The titan snickered, but his joyous expression didn’t convey simple happiness and satisfaction. No, it was cruel superiority, an irony with which he’d shaken to the core an unjust society that had always afflicted him. _

_ “Now the humans know just as much as you: they’ll pass on myths and legends, maybe distorting them and making fools out of you… or rebelling.” He grinned, then surpassing the god of gods and nearing his brother. _

_ “S-So we did it?” His face wet with tears, Epimetheus hinted a smile to welcome his brother. He was answered with a harsh expression, as much hatred and disgust as Prometheus could show. _

_ “I did it, just because I knew from the beginning the proposal would have been denied… so what did I have to lose, sending a useless cretin like you to gain some time? You were nothing but a puppet to distract the gods while I completed my plan! What did you think?!” _

_ The titan Epimetheus didn’t even answer. His incommensurable sadness reached him later: later than the pain, and later than when his brother’s fist pierced through his chest from side to side. He puked blood, which mixed with the tears that already flooded his face. _

_ Then he died in remorse, aware that he’d only ever been a dummy to his brother. _

_ On the contrary, without any remorse, Prometheus was chained to a rock, still sporting that smug smile on his lips. An eagle devoured his liver day after day, as it went down in history, but he never lost his smile: deep down he knew that eventually humans would chew through the chains the gods had tried to put on them, and one day, who knows, they’d revolt against their own creators. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prometheus against Josef Mengele. The titan is the infiltrate, the one who didn't want to fight mankind... then why is this happening? If you're wondering, stay tuned for the next chapters.  
> A couple of things first:  
> 1) I hope you liked how I revisited Prometheus's myth. After all it's something that's been changed a lot thoughout history. I wanted to make it coherent with the general atmosphere of the story (there's a Council of the Gods and not a single pantheon).  
> 2) This is dumb, but not useless to say: obviously if I included Mengele it's not because I consider him a hero or something. This isn't meant as an apology for nazism, and I hope nobody thinks it is. Furthermore, I won't be making direct references to nazism or world war two, because I consider them a bit heavy to handle: I'm not negating nazism or the holocaust, nor am I denying the tragedy of that time. Just to be clear.  
> Join the official discord server to stay updated: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> See you tomorrow!


	14. Dead End

**Chapter 14: Dead End**

But, now more than ever, that same knowledge Prometheus had donated to mankind threatened to ruthlessly crush him, wielded like a poisonous dagger by a wicked hand.

The starting bell had already rung long ago, and he was still hesitating to act in that hallway.

“Just to be clear, avoiding that cowardice may have made you go deaf…” Josef Mengele had taken something out of the inside of his jacket: a small glass cylinder, with a bright colour inside. There was also a needle in between his fingers.

“Whether you surrender, hymning to the pity that resides in your heart, or choose not to fight, it makes no difference to me.” He’d just assembled a syringe, after wearing two latex gloves. “I, as a doctor, faithful to the oath I’ve made…”

One step after the other. He was getting close to the titan, who felt his nape sting and itch more and more due to the goosebumps.

“...I’ll proceed with a slow and meticulous dissection of your body, with no anaesthesia!”

A punch in the face reached him, breaking his voice and petrifying him on the spot like a tree trunk. Josef straightened his back when his feet had already detached from the ground: he looked like a departing plane.

At that moment, his mind cooler than ever, Prometheus could recognize his arm stretched forward, and his fist dived into the German’s face. Sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks, along with his unkempt hair, moved by the heat of the blow.

His body was still cold, but it didn’t take much for all his muscles to warm up until they burnt: it was a sign he’d moved, he didn’t stay still. He didn’t control that action, his brain still numb with shock, but his body had decided to move.

He felt tears pushing at the corner of his eyes, about to come out.

“First hit!” the announcers yelled out “With a sucker punch, Prometheus does his first move!”

And right when they were about to scream with even more excitement, a sight left them speechless.

“Oh, Heaven! I-I’m sorry, I… didn’t mean to, I didn’t do it on purpose!”

The giant fighter was now leaning towards his opponent, hesitating to touch him, but visibly worried about having hit him that hard. Josef, meanwhile, had cupped his face in his hands, hiding it as they trembled.

A red liquid was spilt on his white gloves, pouring between his palms and his fingers and hitting the ground with a disgusting snapping sound. Prometheus flinched: “Is it b-blood? I didn’t mean to, I swear…”

But the German keeled over, letting his arms slide down his bent knees. His face was marked by a big round bruise that covered his bloody, broken nose.

-But… my body was modified by these very hands to overcome the limits of a normal human- the doctor thought in the meantime, feeling his head about to explode due to the pain.

-If it weren’t like this… if I were a regular human… that instinctive hit would have crushed my skull like a ball run over by a _Panzer_.- His evil eyes became thin and sharp like two slits, observing his opponent with suspicion. -But now… he must have understood that thing.-

In fact, before him, Prometheus had abandoned his worry for another perplexity: he was looking at his right hand, because it had been suddenly caught by an annoying burning sensation. Turning the palm around, he noticed small abrasions on his knuckles, like stains all along the back of his hand.

Because his own hand now covered his field of view, he couldn’t notice what was happening in front of him: favoured by his strategic position, Josef collected all the soil where his blood had been spilt to then throw it at his opponent. This, caught off guard, didn’t know how to react to the pile of dirt and dust that hit him.

Initially, he didn’t get why he would do such a thing, but pain reached him soon after. It burnt a lot worse than his hand, and it was in correspondence to the debris that had dirtied his suit. Lowering his head, he could see his white jacket burn and corrode, while the skin beneath was already being mauled by an incomprehensible attack.

This time, however, despite the excruciating pain, he kept an eye on Josef as he got up and jumped towards him. The doctor dug the syringe he’d been wielding since the beginning, hitting nothing: Prometheus had backed off. When the plunger was pushed, the liquid inside was shot like a bullet, and it unexpectedly pierced through the titan’s shoulder.

Prometheus, as he felt his flesh being pierced by the liquid, felt the same fear as before. His body was cold, but his tense muscles seemed like lavic stones. He now responded to one single impulse, and instinct that made him doubt his rationality: survive. He fled.

The corridor was wide, so there was no way for the German to stop him when he ran towards the inside of the building. The announcers and the audience flinched at the sight of that choice: “Nothing of the sort had ever been seen before! It’s a flight, ladies and gentlemen! Since Prometheus decided to beat a retreat, all the hallways in the Valhalla arena are to be considered battlefields. You are kindly requested to leave the building…”

Not caring about that voice from the sky, Josef turned his back on the outside, towards the blood trail his fleeing opponent had shed. In the darkness cast on his face, the umpteenth dazzling smile widened.

-I didn’t warn you about one thing, Prometheus… None of my patients survive surgery from me!-

The air darted on the edges of his face, as he left the never-ending dark and unknown behind him. The deepest wounds wouldn’t stop bleeding, and the skin burnt.

-What the hell was that? A human shouldn’t be able to harm a deity!-

Prometheus wanted to flee from the truth the same way he was fleeing from the match, but actually, he wasn't ignorant about the previous matches. The concept of Sephirot, a Weapon gifted to mankind by the Tree of Life that allowed man to fight god, had fascinated him right away: with that weapon, he believed, it was possible to flip the balance of stupidity that oppresses knowledge.

But in that situation the knife was pointed at him, and the handle was in the hands of a human he couldn’t expect. He wanted to kill him, ignoring and spitting on everything Prometheus ever wanted to bring to the human race with his help.

He shook his head, banishing that thought. He wanted his head to stay clear at all costs, while every time he thought about his loss of hope, he felt a piece of his soul being ripped away.

-When I hit him, my knuckles burnt…and in the same way, when he threw at me the soil wet with his blood, it was a proper attack. This makes me think his Weapon is in his blood, but… this would mean he must have covered the scalpel in it, and it must have been in the syringe, too!-

A reached an area full of rooms, so he entered one of the first doors he found. Inside, there was silent tranquility, but it was right then that fear went back to making him convulsively shiver. Leaned on the door, he slid to the ground.

-What if it wasn't blood? What if it was another liquid he covered his face with, and that he had inside his mouth? Think, Prometheus, think!-

Something made him flinch, to the point where he was about to yell in surprise: it was a song echoing in the corridor beyond the door, followed by a constant screech, that gave goosebumps.

_ “Und der Haifisch, der hat Zähne _

_ Und die trägt er im Gesicht _

_ Und Macheath, der hat ein Messer _

_ Doch das Messer, sieht man nicht!” _

_ (Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear _

_ And he shows them, pearly white _

_ Just a jackknife has Macheath, dear _

_ And he keeps it out of sight!) _

A scalpel screeched against the wall, by the handle, dragging a scratch as Josef walked.

On mankind’s grandstands, a lot of people flinched watching that malevolent creature slither in the hallways like a monster chasing its prey, but one of them winced with even more horror.

“He can’t be… singing my… ballad!” The musician Kurt Weil leapt on his feet, a mask of horror and disgust laid on his face. On his side a man, more composed and serious, but not less touched by that view, hissed:

“ _Die Dreigroschenoper_ , first piece: _die Moritat von Mackie Messer_.” The two men, both German, were immediately recognized by the crowd.

Bertold Brecht, the playwright who had composed the Threepenny Opera, stared at the broadcast from behind his round glasses, haunted by a feeling of discomfort.

“And that opera talks about a heinous criminal, Macheath or Mackie Messer, that not even the law can contrast… it was criticism, veiled satire for which I had to flee from that regime of terror!” His eyes were fixated on the face of that man he’d be able to recognize forever, and on the Celtic cross on his shoulder.

“For my opera to be eventually heard by a Nazi… it makes me sick!”

Meanwhile, Prometheus heard the sound of that voice grow feebler and feebler as it got distant.

-Is he… gone?- Curiosity made him get up and want to open the door.

When he laid his hand on the door handle, a sudden flash of pain forced him to roar, cutting his breath short. He recognized the feeling of boiling acid, so when he lowered his gaze he could recognize his hand, entered in contact with the liquid from before, finely smeared on the handle.

“ _Klopf klopf? Lass mich rein! (Knock knock? Let me in!)_ ” Sudden and ruthless like lightning in a clear sky, Josef’s arms peeked from the semi-open door and girded the titan’s injured arm. Yanking it towards him and bending it at a straight angle, he broke it in two: the broken bone made a sharp and clear sound.

The speed at which that action was performed didn’t make Prometheus immediately feel the pain, however, he saw with his own eyes his arm, disjointed in that horrible way. Anyway, his opponent’s attack wasn’t over yet: with a single blow, he broke through the door at the titan’s nape level, reaching the occipital with two fingers.

Again, the sound of a snap.

“Ouch, ouch! You ought to be careful now, _mein verlörest Kind (my lost child)_...” Mengele had dug his face into Prometheus’s hair, as his head was now bent at an unnatural angle. A strange bump protruded from his throat.

“Breaking your C6 cervical vertebra, your neck bent and is creating a pressure that presses on both the carotid and the vertebral artery. Soon, blood and oxygen won’t reach your brain anymore, and you’ll die…” As he pronounced those words, Prometheus couldn’t see him as he couldn’t move his head, but the German had rolled his eyes up in the back of his head in ecstasy.

“As you can see I don’t even need my Weapon, derived from the Sephirot Cochma, Insight of Wisdom, to beat you! A little anatomical knowledge is enough to make you choke on your own body! This is my dominance, my supremacy… while you’re an inert lab rat that has to clench its teeth until I run out of things I want to try on you.”

After saying those words, however, he loosened his grip on the titan’s neck and arm.

The titan turned around, managing to glimpse the door fling open. His opponent, now appearing wholly, presented a brand new gear: through metallic harnesses on his chest, he’d attached two big glass tanks to his back, inside of which there was a red liquid. The tanks were linked to some tubes: some went up to his elbows and then disappeared inside his uniform, while others were connected to the assault rifle the man was brandishing. 

Even though he’d never seen such a weapon be used in combat, Prometheus had a hunch about how it worked based on its structure. This way, he could interpret the movement of Mengele’s finger on the trigger as a red flag.

“ **Das ist der Blitzkrieg**!”

A flurry of blood-red bullets exploded in the small room, and now that the only exit was blocked, there was no way to run away.

The titan jumped backwards, seeing the furniture around him be reduced to rubble. He landed on a bed, because that would have been a guest room, and flipping it over he tried to create minimal protection. When he turned the bed slats towards him, he didn’t fail to notice something unusual that stuck out between them.

The colour of fire, of a rose, of a brutally murdered corpse: blood. Between the wooden slats, a bag of blood was tied, the ones used for transfusions. Upon this sight, Prometheus understood he’d made the worst mistake of his life, starting from the moment he’d decided to play by Josef’s rules.

The bed reached him at high speed when the German threw it at him with a kick, and the bag collided with him and exploded.

A steam cloud that reeked of burnt flesh was generated, but even the crisp crackling sound of skin didn’t manage to cover the agonizing roar that burst out.

“A trap! Prometheus fell into a trap!”

St. Peter and Adramelech leaned forward, impressed by the horrendous and violent sight they were witnessing: “Because he was lured by Josef in a room he’d previously armed!”

“The advantage of choosing the battlefield plenty of time in advance is a delight. I’ve been to war, you know?” The German asked with a kind smile, using his rifle to push the bed, and consequently Prometheus, up against the wall. When he pinned him to the wall, flesh and blood spurted everywhere between agonizing screams, while his chest and face melted in excruciating pain.

“But I wouldn’t blame you for your choice, and I wouldn’t want you to feel unlucky: every room in this labyrinth is a trap ready to snap. What’s wrong with using a non-conventional weapon like a trap, a trick, or a blindside in war? There are no dumb, ethical laws here, and forgive me the wordplay if I say there’s no… humanity!”

It was just for an instant, but in the heat, the folly, and the spraying blood, their eyes met. In frozen time, the most representative image of their existence seemed to have been captured in a photograph: Josef, drunk with superiority, and Prometheus, eternally suffering.

Then the titan, prey of a spasm of pain, didn’t squirm like a beast. A single blow with his strength was enough to shatter the bed, and Mengele’s rifle too.

-I…- Surprised by the point-blank turn of the situation, the Nazi tried to plan a strategy, but everything played out way too quickly under his eyes.

When he noticed, Prometheus wasn’t there anymore, and he just glimpsed the blanket the titan had dragged along with him as he fled the room.

-He was… quick.- He took a hand to his face, brushing the cut that a flying splinter had given him. The fingers of his glove turned red. -But he didn’t attack me directly. Has he noticed…?-

“Oh, however…” Forcing out encouraging laughter, he shook his bowed head. “The situation doesn’t change.”

Knowing he had his opponent wrapped around his finger, confident like a spider moving on its own web, he proceeded in the labyrinth of hallways he already knew by heart. He followed the blood trails until, when he was about to turn a corner, he remembered this would bring to a cul-de-sac.

He curled his lips in a devilish smile, peeping with determined steps towards his enemy’s end.

There, as planned, he saw a bent-over figure, wrapped in a blanket. Blood stained his feet, forming a puddle.

“Not by chance I told you about unpunished crimes, earlier…” He started walking towards him. “Your death will be added to the gods’ countless defeats, hence you’ll become a mere number. Do you think they’ll mourn you for long, or will they be busy putting their hopes onto the next fighter? As a man said, who, well… I’d say I don’t respect much, but however, I was saying, he expressed a thought which was quite shared in my country too… _“The death of one is a tragedy, the death of a million is statistics”_. But I wouldn’t want you to think that it makes any difference to me whether humans or gods win.”

His speech, heard by the whole audience, was unanimously repudiated, as no one disagreed that that man was the worst scum of the Earth.

Even the mysterious god, especially after that last statement, didn’t spare himself a disgusted grimace.

“... because do you know what I want right now? Study how a god… dies!”

“That’s enough!” a voice, rumbling like an avalanche, cut him off. 

The German, caught off guard, was left open-mouthed. In front of him, the crouched figure got up, dripping blood. For a few seconds, the tick of blood on the ground was the only sound that broke the overall silence. 

“You’ve already given me enough motives to reconsider my stance” Prometheus said in the end, taking the blanket off.

What Josef Mengele found before him was enough to make him widen his eyes, overcome by sudden and undeniable consternation mixed with unfathomable surprise.

The titan’s body loomed over him, statuary and perfect, but most of all uninjured. The jacket had been removed, showing his chest generous with bursting muscles, while his face was contracted in an expression of determination and untamable force.

Not even a wound, physical or psychological, was left to affect that deity that now seemed to glow with his own light, like a torch.

He was the lighthouse of Alexandria, the North Star, the direction humans looked towards, united, without even knowing.

“In the beginning, I was too torn by my principles to declare a match against a human, even though they wanted to kill me. This is because my love for mankind is infinite and undeniable!” The titan lifted his head, challenging for the very first time the man, looking down on him.

“However… now I realized that, by eliminating a corrupt individual like you, I’m only making a gesture of love and justice towards mankind! So prepare to be destroyed, Josef Mengele!”

Finally, the duel could be considered started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about references: Josef in concept and design is inspired by Dr. Hajime Hanafusa of Kengan Ashura, by Dr. Kiryu of Starving Anonymous (since the character's physical appearance is the same as Mengele) and in the behavior byHannibal Lecter. Prometheus, on the other hand, is something more original, it didn't have any real inspiration.  
> Join the official discord server to stay updated: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> See you tomorrow!


	15. Murderous Intent

**Chapter 15: Murderous Intent**

It was charity and righteousness: his intent of eliminating that wicked human was announced by Prometheus so that everyone could hear him. His shout had reached the universe’s ear, as well as every heart that strove for that same hope.

Fear and terror wouldn’t be the only things haunting the audience’s minds, because the titan’s great stance cast a shadow on the small man.

“By eliminating you, I’ll make the world mankind will inhabit a better one!” Prometheus raised his fist to the sky, clenching it so hard the veins swelled.

His eyes full of force, however, didn’t find a satisfying reaction from the doctor. Instead, the man’s eyes glowed with interest for a brief moment, then they squinted in a mellifluous smile.

“Adorable: regeneration.”

As the myth said, although Prometheus’s punishment consisted of an eagle eating his liver, every night this body would heal. Forced to undergo that torment for unending eras, the titan’s organism had assimilated that condition, appropriating it: he was able to heal himself, repairing every wound.

“But that’s not all there is. The wounds I’d caused you were practically impossible to heal, so complex not even a professional surgeon wouldn’t know where to start to regenerate the tissues... “ the man pointed out. “But you were good as new in no time. Do you know anything about medicine?”

Even though the last question was obviously rhetorical and brimming with irony, his opponent answered seriously and without hesitating.

“All the skills I had to pass down to mankind…” He remembered clearly all the years he’d spent among humans, then what he’d learnt in the flame of knowledge he’d gazed in.

All that knowledge glowed in his mind as it did in the flame.

“...I first had to master them myself! There is no new technology or evolution I couldn’t predict and I can’t use: This is the core of **Prometheia, “All of Mankind’s Talents”**!”

“I understand… so, as a doctor, should I thank you for being the advocate for medicine among humans?” Always talking with stinging irony, Josef proceeded to unhinge the two tanks he had on his back, laying them on the floor behind him.

“A doctor? You?” Those words of Prometheus, pronounced with tremendous harshness, didn’t leave him impassible as usual. Even one like him, at that moment, trembled, overwhelmed by a heat coming from the head.

He smothered his rage, even though his hardened face clearly showed the effort, and detached the tubes that connected the tanks to his arms. “You actually hurt me for the very first time, my titan…”

He nervously grinned, observing his opponent as he’d already done before. There was something different, an out-of-tune note in the usual song: the aggressiveness he showed was more cautious, like a predator preparing to jump on prey that can fend for itself, and will do it until death if necessary.

Gods and humans waited in turmoil, while the presenters’ lips grazed their microphones in the destructive wait that separated them from their next word. One could hear a hair hitting the floor.

Sprinting forward faster than his opponent could react, Josef Mengele got dangerously close to his foe’s guard: he was in the range for any deadly blow. From inside his jacket, as he’d previously done with the scalpel and the syringe, he took out an object, coloured with the same reddish liquid: it looked like an ice pick with a very long and sharp tip, almost as long as a hand.

Taking the large and round base into his hand, his fingers tightened around it, he stood before his foe. He towered over him, obviously, but he crouched even more to dodge incoming attacks.

When Prometheus seemed about to move, Josef ignored whatever action of his and simply lunged the weapon upwards.

The orbitoclast, this is the name of the object, was invented to perform the macabre surgery called lobotomy; and that’s exactly what the doctor intended on using it for, aiming for the titan’s eye: if he’d dug the tip into his eye socket, he would have pierced through the tear duct and reached the brain. That way, no regeneration would be able to repair such damage.

Completely immersed in his atrocious shenanigan, he didn’t expect at all that Prometheus would decide to parry that blow at all costs. In fact, raising his hand and letting it be pierced, the titan blocked the tip before it got too close to his skull. His superhuman muscles nullified Mengele’s strength, who found himself blocked. Then he let his arm swing like a pendulum, or a sword of Damocles, landing a backhander on the human’s skull. The impact was so strong it emitted a sound similar to that of a gong.

Josef’s eyes became milky, lightless, as little streams of blood came out of every possible orifice on his head. 

However, when he stomped a foot on the ground to regain his balance, he showed he hadn’t given in yet. He wickedly smirked, leaning forward. That’s when Prometheus noticed that, in the heat of the moment, the Nazi’s jacket had disappeared.

When he lifted his head, he saw it falling towards him. Its internal side was completely drenched with red, and it now loomed on his head to put an end to his life. Overcome by a fear impulse and thanks to his cool head, he leapt backwards to avoid the danger. Finally, with a simple hit on the “non-dangerous” part of the suit, he got rid of it.

Unluckily, when he believed he’d acted preventing anything from happening around him, he soon remembered that his enemy was far from being out of the game.

Mengele, in fact, had gained enough time to recover and had nimbly sneaked out of his opponent’s field of view. This time barehanded, but stretching his fingers like needles, he dug them in the titan’s uncovered back. The contact happened, inevitably: every single action of his had been performed to distract and destabilize an enemy he knew he couldn’t face directly, forcing him to turn his most vulnerable side on him.

“Direct hit!” St. Peter and Adramelech exclaimed, making the gods’ side flinch.

The deities found themselves witnessing a chilling view: their vanguard, Prometheus, was still, while one could clearly see that Josef, behind him, had hit him in the back.

“And Prometheus… doesn’t move! Might it be…?” No one really understood what was happening.

This because no one, except for the human, had any idea what was happening there.

Josef Mengele had, for the first time since the beginning of the match, widened his eyes in surprise, seeing his triumphant smile be turned into a confused grimace. Both of his hands had sure hit Prometheus’s back, but not piercing it: rather, the god’s flesh had gaped like a maw made of muscles and bones, then closing him and trapping his wrists.

Before he could even think of what to say, the titan’s voice anticipated him:

“You really thought my bodily structure only knew how to regenerate?” When he turned his head to look at him, a shiny and cold light overwhelmed him: it was the smile of crushing hope.

“Unfortunately that’s not the case: if my medical and anatomical knowledge allows me to reconstruct my body with maximal precision at any point… I can do the same, destroying and then recomposing it.” **Destruction and Recomposition**. That was a supernatural being’s ability, as ancient as the oldest gods of existence.

With a simple twist of the body, and loosening his grip on Mengele’s hands, Prometheus lifted the man in the air. Enough to bring him at eye level.

“And now… die!” His voice reached Mengele, floating in the air like a cloth doll, at the same time as a barrier of punches from ginormous arms.

Every single blow landed tremendously on the man, making the air around him quiver.

“ _ORAORAORAORAORAORA_! _ORRAAAH_!!” His shouts echoed in the whole arena, even reaching the upper grandstands.

Gods and humans vibrated in unison to that monstrous power.

When the flurry ended, with one last blow Mengele was sent flying away in a swirl of blood. Prometheus’s knuckles itched a bit, but the pain didn’t worry him at all.

“This sure was a direct hit, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcers corrected themselves as soon as they snapped back from astonishment.

Every screen broadcast the same image, able to convey a reassuring feeling of comfort to whoever looked at it: Prometheus’s back, large and soothing.

The humans teared up, weeping as they accepted the protection the titan wanted to bring to their race. The gods, at the same time, couldn’t not rejoice in the view of such an impressive demonstration of divine strength.

Right when every eye had been caught by that back, in veneration, Prometheus’s legs gave in and his back arched, bending over.

A loud, general flinch echoed in the air, without reaching the titan.

He was on his knees, supporting himself with his arms, his mind too focused on his condition to think about anything else. Sweat drips streamed down his face and then fell to the ground.

“I knew it…” he whispered, his voice feeble. His eyes went to the crack in the wall where his opponent had been embedded. Mengele’s face was unflappable, too serious to smile, too stiff to show worry or fear.

It was a wax mask that concealed the true emotions of his heart, nonetheless, Prometheus could read them neatly.

“I bet you’re dying to tell me what you’ve done” the titan giggled, clumsily trying to get back up. His muscles didn’t respond correctly.

The doctor, sighing cryptically, complied:

“Just in case, I’d hidden under my fingernails some capsules containing the liquid that constitutes my Weapon, Cochma. This way, once I was inside your body, I was able to inject it between your thoracic vertebrae, in the spinal canal: I sedated your spine, preventing any stimuli from reaching the brain from that point down. However… I know it’ll take you only a few seconds to reconstruct it all.” Not being able to inject viruses or poisons, Josef had used his mysterious multi-usage weapon in the best way, according to his medical and surgical knowledge.

“Now that I granted your wish… why don’t you tell me a thing I want to know, too? Exactly, what _did you know_?” His voice slightly broke. It was hard to guess whether it was for the heinous wounds on his body, or for some emotion that breached through his heart.

Prometheus welcomed that request with a serene smile, knowing he had nothing to lose.

The spectators witnessed that scene in a turmoil, gripping their seats with their nails, waiting for something.

“You paralyzed me so that, however the match ended, I wouldn’t be able to destroy _that thing_ …” Now his eyes shifted to a point in the hallway not too far from him, where Mengele's two tanks laid.

“You sacrificed yourself to block me, you must care a lot about them.”

“It’s not a _thing_!” the doctor roared, wiggling to free himself from the stone.

“Oh, I understood that by now… however, it’s not a human being either.”

What he was looking at, when it was framed and broadcast, made every spectator gasp. Such a disconcerting sight was impossible to define or describe, and for various reasons it aroused terror, disgust, and horror in whoever was present.

Floating in one of the two tanks, because the other one had almost run out of the red liquid, was a humanoid figure. It could be hardly defined as anthropomorphic, because its shapeless limbs and its incomplete constitution made it seem like it wasn’t a fully formed organism yet.

It was being born and generated before everyone’s eyes: a new, unknown creature.

Observing it with two eyes lost at the borders of time, Josef sighed in relief.

_ **Günzburg, Bavaria, 1926** _

_ During the golden years of the country that would one day become Germany, but that was called the Weimar Republic at the time, every citizen was aware they’d entered an era of happiness: economic and cultural progress went hand in hand, allowing the birth of cinema, cabaret, and theatre like nowhere in Europe. _

_ Right in the two decades of Bauhaus, the Mengele family was well off and didn’t know hunger. _

_ Their youngest kid, Josef, had to put his school career to a halt as a fifteen-year-old boy because of a bone disease, osteomyelitis. Forced to spend a lot of time in the hospital, everyone could suppose an average kid would be dead bored, but he had a secret. _

_ Or better, he shared a secret. _

_ “Josef!” a voice from beneath the window whispered, as to not be heard. The young boy leaned out of his hospital bed, seeing a small figure climbing the tree out there. _

_ “What are you doing today?!” the kid turned around energetically, and he almost fell down. He had a lively smile, a dirty face, and modest, sweaty clothes. _

_ Nonetheless, what struck Josef the most when he looked at him was one simple thing: they were identical. _

_ Engel, that was the name of the kid, son of the labourer who owned the land next to the hospital, he’d met him for the first time as he was being brought there. In the instant when their eyes met, with those identical faces luckily no one noticed, it was as if a cascade of sparks exploded between the two of them. _

_ “Do you believe in fate, Josef?” he asked one night, his chin rested on his crossed arms, clinging to the window. _

_ And the little one had stopped to ponder. Indeed, in a universe we don’t know the limits of, full of countless galaxies and limitless solar systems, containing an infinity of planets, with billions of individuals, thousands of countries and millions of cities… -Wasn’t it fate if I met you?- _

_ Nonetheless, although he and Engel were identical in appearance, the other kid sure had a more thoughtless and fearless behaviour: he climbed on trees and roofs like a chimney sweeper, but doing small jobs here and there he always had a myriad of topics to talk about. He was the only window Josef had on the outside world, while he was stuck in there. _

_ And while Engels could tell him about that “Metropolis” by Fritz Lang that was _ _blowing up cinemas, or about the American skirt trend that was making the girls go crazy, Josef could barely talk about medicine. In the many hours his friend and clone was not there, he tried to train his speech skills with the doctors, and he learnt from their work._

_ When, two years later, he got out of the hospital, he kept seeing Engel everyday without telling anybody. It was still their secret, as if the existence of something as precious as their sameness was to be kept away from the world. _

_ -What does it mean to be identical?- Josef asked himself one day. _

_ In time, he’d become a lot more social and kind, and his studies in university showed the birth of a new, exuberant personality everyone appreciated. Nevertheless, as much as he tried, he couldn’t manage to feel identical to Engel. _

_ -How can one make a human being the same as another?- He couldn’t think about anything else, and as the years passed by he noticed he didn’t look at that kind smile, that stirring soul, and that rampant bravery with precious friendship anymore, but with hatred. _

_ “What do you mean you enlisted?!” Engel yelled one day, trying not to be heard as usual, in the Mengele’s yard. They were safe from indiscrete eyes. _

_ It was the year 1931: the crisis of Wall Street had caused the end of that dream era they were born and raised in. Democracy was a dying carcass, but true vultures preferred to feed off of who, guided by a thirst for revolution, as if they’d awoken from a peaceful dream with only hate in their body, looked forward to a war. _

_ The most loved party was the NSDAP, with Adolf Hitler as the leader, but it was still far from a crushing victory in the election. _

_ And in that stirring mass of chaos, it was up to the youth to take the reins of their country. Josef Mengele, at twenty, had decided to enroll in a paramilitary group that had also attempted a putsch, and was acclaimed by the Italian leader, Mussolini. _

_ “I’m enrolling to face whatever war my country will face” the doctor calmly responded, as if it wasn’t him speaking. His clone noticed that, or better, felt that. _

_ The genetic variables that characterize a human being influence not only their appearance, but also their behaviour. This way, there can’t be a human being on Earth who is identical to another, if you also take the emotional sphere into account. This difference is less common in twins, because their similar genetic structures favour a similar interpretation of behaviour: the so-called telepathy of twins. _

_ Engel obviously wasn’t Josef’s twin, or however he never had the confirmation, but at that moment he knew exactly what the other was thinking. He was afraid of it. _

_ “Don’t do it.” He grabbed his hand, yanking it towards him to restrain him. “It’s not a war you really want to fight!” _

_ “Yes, it is!” the other answered, shouting as he’d never done before. “Only a war can get rid of useless human beings! And then.. we’ll all be… identical and flawless!” _

_ Josef undoubtedly thought Engel to be flawless, compared to him. Because of this, when he “unluckily” exploded a gunshot into his clone’s chest, he showed the greatest contradiction of his life. _

_ He’d killed a perfect being, identical to him, but never, never, never, with all the research he was able to do, with all the sacrifices and experiments, the atrocities and the infamies, did he manage to even graze his perfection. The Angel of Death had brought another angel far from that Earth, in order to recreate hell. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> I would like to talk about Josef's background for a moment: if there were any doubts, Engel's part is completely invented. This is because I wanted to contextualize that characterization of the character that binds him to the experiments on twins and to sadism.
> 
> In summary, if you didn't understand, what he was looking for all his life was to recreate a perfect being (which is actually relevant to reality, because with the experiments on twins he really wanted to understand how to quickly recreate more and more aryans), and now with his Sefirot he is capaple of doing it. What will become of his clone then?  
> Join the official discord server to stay updated: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> And check tomorrow for the ending!


	16. Dead End (Final)

**Chapter 16: Dead End (Final)**

In a world far, far away from that one, Josef Mengele was just a powerless man in a pool of his own blood.

Blood. He’d lost a lot of it.

His Sephirot allowed him to turn his own blood into a god-slayer weapon by filtering it through those tanks. After soaking various items in it, as well as his jacket, and filling some transfusion bags to use as traps, he felt there wasn’t much left in his body. All the blood he produced, in fact, went into that hourglass of life and death: his creation.

It was a creation it was worth winning that match for, to go on with his experiments forever. He looked with melancholy at the perfect human being he wanted to create and had to protect.

_ “Freude _

_ schöner Götterfunken _

_ Tochter aus Elysium” _

_ (Joy _

_ beautiful spark of divinity _

_ daughter of Elysium) _

That sound vibrated in the silence like a fired arrow, but it covered the endlessness of the empty and dark hallway.

Prometheus arched his eyebrows. His legs were recovering, but by then he wasn’t the only one who could move anymore.

_ “Wir betreten feuertrunken _

_ Himmlische, dein Heiligtum” _

_ (We enter, drunk with fire, _

_ Heavenly one, thy sanctuary) _

“It can’t be!” humans muttered to each other, so stunned they couldn’t turn up the volume of their voice, as if there were some rules to follow.

“Could it really be…?”

_ “Deine Zauber binden wieder _

_ Was die Mode streng geteilt” _

_ (Thy magic binds again _

_ What custom strictly divided) _

The Ode to Joy, composed by Friedrich Schiller and played by Ludwig van Beethoven, was sweetly, and devilishly, coming out of Mengele’s bloody lips.

The titan clenched his fists, preparing for battle. In an instant he’d got on his feet, ready to face whatever horror would be born in front of him.

_ “alle Menschen _

_ Werden Brüder…” _

_ (All people _

_ become brothers…) _

Silence. A breath could barely be heard. 

Then the doctor lifted his face. His smile, wide in the dark as usual, now seemed a mere ornament, a distraction from the shapeless, sloppy mass that writhed in his soul and that, manifesting itself as subdermal parasites, deformed the flesh of his face.

_ “…WO DEIN SANFTER FLÜGEL WEILT!” _

_ (...WHERE THY GENTLE WING ABIDES!) _

While those abominations spread to the rest of his body, looking like giant worms under his clothes, the man burst out in a sick laugh. By then, there was nothing human about him anymore.

“Despair, you fool! Despair for the evil you yourself created, for mankind corrupted by evil and the superior intellect of people like me! **Sieg Heil**!”

In a maniacal statement, he brought both his hands at waist height, straightening his back and pointing at his opponent. Then, summoning all his strength, he squeezed his body with absurd pressure: from his mouth, he puked organs, bones, and… blood.

The blood, after leaving his body, bolted in the air and shapeshifted until it turned into a humanoid being, or better, its owner. That emanation of Mengele, made out of vital fluids, was shot towards its opponent and, surprisingly, it widened its eyes and a grin, showing it was sentient.

Prometheus shivered, but showed great courage by not backing off in front of such monstrosity.

“This time it’s different!” that blood phantom laughed coarsely, jumping on its prey. From its liquid body, tentacle-lick tendrils branched out, ending with drill bits.

“I just have to hit you to enter your bloodstream, and through haematic transmission… I’ll take control of your body and kill you!”

They were blood-red trails drawn in the void. Only the glow in Prometheus’s eyes was visible, even if just for an instant.

All the deformed creature’s attacks lunged into nothing, making it widen its red eyes.

Every hit hissed, missing its opponent: the titan kept his cool head, dodging every blow with maximum attention. His pride, his dignity, and his willpower brought him lightyears away from any reachable human limit.

“Swing! Swing! Prometheus slides under every blow, dodging them all!!” Knowing they were witnessing something incredible, the announcers were the last straw: the whole audience got up on its feet, caught by the tension of that heart-pounding match.

Even Fenrir observed the scene with maximum interest, fixated on those images.

The organizer gods hopefully waited to see the victory of their vanguard soon, while the mysterious god, this time remaining on the sidelines, was nervously biting his thumbnail.

Phobetor wasn’t looking at a nightmare anymore, but at such a magnificent dream it could inspire a feeling similar to fear, but totally different. Even Erebus and Nyx seemed to go pale when a blinding light exploded in front of everyone’s eyes.

“ **Scorching Bright Light**!”

After bending at an impossible angle, Prometheus’s body had tensed, engraving in history the splendid image of stretching muscles that drew a path of power, energy, and vital fire that ended with a punch: it was the perfect representation of the adjective “divine”.

That punch was so strong it managed to make Mengele’s liquid figure blow up upon contact. Blood drops were obliterated from existence, totally nullifying even the memory of the body that once hosted them.

“He has… he has…!” The voice from the megaphones screeched with hesitation.

“Prometheus has…”

But Prometheus flinched, clenching his teeth to suffocate a scream.

He looked at his hand. There, a small hole on his knuckle.

“ _I did it!_ ” A voice came from inside his body.

“ _If you didn’t tear me into tiny pieces, I would have never managed to get inside you so easily! And now I’m in your bloodstream… In your bloodstream, do you get it? It’s over!_ ”

He couldn’t see it anymore, but he could sense the doctor’s smile forming under his own skin.

“But I don’t want it to end like this…”

Unbothered, the titan showed to be disdainful even towards the fatal risk he was taking.

He fell to his knees but kept his chin up, his eyes proud, looking at the hand he’d now lifted in front of his eyes.

“ _What? What are you…?_ ”

The titan’s skin became pale, paper-like, as the light of reason abandoned his eyes. With a feeble voice, he stuttered:

“I… am controlling my bloodstream to direct it towards my arm… preventing you from circulating in the rest of my body…”

“ _No! Have you gone crazy?!_ ” The doctor in his blood shouted, unable to believe what he’d just heard. He tried to fight with all his strength, but he couldn’t do anything, he was trapped.

“ _What will you get… from doing this? If you take the blood away from your brain, you’ll die! Only an idiot would do something like this to…_ ”

“Idiot, huh?” With a bittersweet smile on his lips, Prometheus interrupted him.

“It’s something you can’t understand unless you’ve experienced it: it’s what brings a man to go into surgery even though he has no possibility of surviving… it’s what moves fortune, fate, faith, false hopes, and blind trust in oneself.”

He thought back to the knowledge he’d given to mankind, but also to how, however, they weren’t obliged to use it.

“It’s… the beauty of being stupid!”

When Prometheus’s right arm turned livid red, the titan amputated it with the last strength he had left. The limb fell, then it withered like a dried leaf and disappeared in a handful of dust.

The silence went on for a while, wrapping everything in a mystical halo of scorching light that pierces through the darkness. Humans and deities held their breath.

The mysterious god barely sighed. His face had never been so turbid, twisted into a grimace that hinted at a swirl of different emotions: rage, humiliation, shame, vengeance. He looked at Prometheus for the very last time, then he gave up on that dark thought for the sake of his mental health: the thought of having made a choice that, unwillingly, had brought him to a defeat. 

“Ladies and gentlemen! The awaited end of this unusual match… is crystal clear, right before our eyes!” 

Right under the sunlight, the titan came out. Walking towards the center of the arena, he was flooded by an explosion of cheers, mostly by his similars.

But that wasn’t what he was looking at: his gaze was caught solely by the humans’ smiles, on their grandstands, and even though his victory meant they moved a step closer to extinction, they felt deeply moved by his gesture.

Finally, he overlooked everyone until he reached the mysterious god, hidden in the shadow. He observed his indecipherable expression, not understanding whether he was satisfied with what happened or not.

“This time, victory was scored by the gods! The winner is the titan PROMETHEUS!!”

Suddenly, he didn’t care about anything and anyone anymore. A voice had called him, so he turned towards that person who… there, next to a smiling Zeus, greeted him and loudly called him.

He’d managed to hear him despite the gods’ shouts, because deep down his heart skipped a beat every time he thought about him. Tears went down his face.

He ran to hug his brother Epimetheus.

Inside the structure, theatre of the freshly-ended bout, a shadow was roaming aimlessly.

Fenrir, the silver wolf, was about to intervene when he saw the battle had begun outside the arena. It was a violation of the rules, and he had to cut it off.

However, after an order had forbidden him to interfere, he stayed aside and watched.

On one hand, he started re-evaluating Prometheus’s pride, a lot different from the fame of traitor and coward he’d gained, while on the other hand, he witnessed the worst person on Earth.

After reaching the tank the doctor was about to give birth to his most inhuman cloning experiment in, he didn’t waste a second: with a snap of his heavy chain Gleipnir, he shattered it into pieces. The red liquid pooled at his feet, but it was harmless by then, as the Sephirot was active as long as its owner was alive.

“Oh, what a nice doggy!” A girl jumped out of nowhere, and with her eyes widened with tenderness she forcefully patted Fenrir’s ears. “Cute! Cute! Cute! A nice puppy!”

He curled his nose: although that human constituted no danger, he was weirded out by that name he was being called by for the very first time.

“Calm down, Charlotte” the mysterious god intervened, stepping forward with bitter eyes. “He isn’t your opponent.”

The girl showed surprise, then, sweetly greeting Fenrir with a scratch on his chin, she walked away.

The wolf watched the two of them walk away and despite the confusion, what happened didn’t touch him at all.

This, until he didn’t notice one small detail: the girl was several feet away from him by then, and she had a knife in her hand. He didn’t see her pull it out at all, but he noticed just now that he’d paid a little more attention.

He thought back to the mysterious god’s words.

-If he hadn’t stopped her… she…- He grazed his neck, where, on the carotid, a small cut stuck out on his skin.

Far away, Charlotte Corday, mankind’s vanguard, giggled by herself as she fiddled with a slightly blood-stained blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the fourth fight is over! What are your opinions about it? Let me know in the story's official Discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> There you will know when the fifth match is going to be published!


	17. Bluff

**Chapter 17: Bluff**

After the tie between gods and humans, someone needed to prevail: the stalemate, the tension, the wait, it was all unbearable now that the tournament neared half of the scheduled bouts.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We’re all here to know…” Adramelech belted, promptly followed by his colleague St. Peter: “...who’ll get the lead?!”

A roar exploded from both sides of the grandstands, with fists in the air and howls. The excitement was through the roof, and the atmosphere vibrated as if the sky was preparing for a storm.

“Then let’s not wait any longer! Let’s get to know who’s going to represent humanity this time…!”

The arena this time looked like a village square, with a small fountain at the centre, bordered by small houses right under the first row of the grandstands. Trees and flowers decorated the green spaces in that rocky, grey environment, probably inspired by a real town.

“Just like the two previous human challengers, this woman has a dark, blood-stained past… and just like Josef Mengele, she too gained the surname _“Angel”_... yes, Angel of Murder!”

She made her entrance naturally, without celebrations or special effects.

The girl, dressed in a long blue dress with white stripes, walked gracefully, accompanied by the tick of her heels and the rustle of her train skirt.

“During the French Revolution she was a criminal… during the Napoleonic Empire, a heroine!”

She wore a blue hat with a white veil underneath, which framed a few brown curls around her beautiful face, pearly and innocent like that of a doll. Her big and gentle eyes were squinted in a benevolent smile.

“However, after that murder in Paris, history would change forever. How ironic… a folk’s history changed by a stabbing, just like with Caesar. This woman’s name is…”

In complete, absurd contradiction with her normal appearance, there was a knife. A normal object in a kitchen, but hazardous in that situation, especially because the girl seemed to hold it without any effort, letting the blade graze her skirt that bounced at every step of hers.

Finally, she stopped, and noticing she was right under the eyes of that big audience, she thanked them for the attention with a deep bow.

“Charlotte Corday!!”

Part of the human crowd was speechless in front of such beauty. For the first time, an almost angelic figure had taken the field, as opposed to the brute, ripped, or eccentric men that had written history.

“And that hot chick should be a murder?!” someone whistled, causing approving laughter as well as perverted howls.

“Silence, you shameless peasants!” a man with a white wig and a terrible face shouted. “That woman is but a heinous terrorist who undermined the peace of the Great Revolution!” It was Maximilien-de-Robespierre, responsible for the Great Terror.

“For the love of God, if I think she might have hit us, instead of homunculus…” a chubby man fanned himself, wearing a wig too: Georges-Jacques Danton, another head of the revolution.

“Oh! Poor man! Oh! Poor man” a third one cried, his face hidden in his hands. After making that scene, when he noticed no one was paying attention to him anymore, his eyes became as cold as ice: “Oh… not too bad.” And he went back to watching the woman who now walked in front of everyone.

He lifted a brush and a canvas, and with feral eyes he said: “It’s you, then! Finally you show yourself to me, letting me portray you in all your beauty!” It was the painter Jacques-Louis David, famous for having portrayed the most famous murder in history, but not the murderer.

Above all of them, a woman sitting comfortably on a bed of veils and cushions gracefully laughed with her pinky finger bent in front of her mouth. Servants and pages fanned her with giant fans made of peacock feathers.

“What an adorable maiden!” Queen Marie Antoinette trilled, adorned by white roses. “I like revisited farm girl fashion, it’s so _mignonne_.”

Meanwhile, the gods didn’t take the revolutionaries or the dauphine of France into account at all, but they curled their noses looking at another group of individuals, sitting aside on mankind’s tribunes.

“I can’t believe it… they chose a dirty criminal from the humans another time.”

In fact, they were pointing at a quartet of people all the other humans had preventively got away from.

“No one can understand… no, they can’t understand” a man with glasses repeated to himself, his head bowed on his knees. “They can’t understand what it’s like to have a dead body in front of you, and wanting more, and more, and more, and more, and…”

“But she only killed one person!” a blonde woman yelled, hugging a man who was about her age. He nodded, then burst out laughing: “And it’s perfect like this! We surely don’t get to decide what’s wrong and what’s right… we, of the worst kind!”

Answering to the cannibal serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, and the two Moors Murderers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, a man with a dark and grim face intervened. 

“Good people and bad people. Who killed one, and who killed many. What matters is that woman felt the sensation… the mother of all satisfactions: observing the last breath of the person whose life you took! There’s nothing better in the world.” Ted Bundy had spirited eyes, as if he was experiencing ecstasy.

They were the scum of humanity. They'd killed men, women, children, and elderly people in the worst ways possible and then they’d brutalized their corpses. They were the killers.

But Charlotte Corday, although a killer too, had no similarities to them whatsoever.

She smiled, looking at the opposite portal from that she’d entered from. There was no one in the crowd to distract her, not even a loved one to turn to, to feel encouraged in such a special moment.

“Now let’s greet the challenger… on the gods’ side!”

The portal flung open, letting a gush of wind reach the arena. It wasn’t long, however, until that breeze became a very strong current. The tribunes were overwhelmed by it, and first of all Charlotte was forced to keep her skirt down with a screech and hold the hat on her head.

“Will it be him who puts an end to mankind, as was his task from the beginning?!”

A figure bolted in the sky like a bullet, but it suddenly stopped mid-air with his arms and legs stretched out. He looked like a kid, and like one he shot out energy from every angle, especially from his smile of thirty-two perfectly white fangs.

“The most known deity, since the beginning of time, in the wild and ruthless land of Mesoamerica!”

He wore a scaled armour of red stone, with a skirt of blue, yellow, white, and black feathers, while the ones on his wristbands and his knee pads were green. On the other hand, his head was adorned by a sort of wooden crown, with a mane of green feathers. His skin was dark, but his yellow, reptilian eyes glowed like stars.

“Of unmistakable charm! The feathered serpent, as beautiful as jade… as shiny as the dawning sun…”

At the moment he landed on the ground, as light as a feather, the wind formed an air column that exploded towards the sky, piercing the clouds. With the light of the purest sun that now perfectly illuminated that kid’s figure like a spotlight, everyone gaped with awe.

“Quetzalcoatl!!”

The gods burst in a roar of admiration and amazement, because none of their vanguards had ever made such a magnificent entrance.

“The fifth bout of the Ragnarok, between these very different fighters… begins now!”

The divine crowd was stirring because of the appearance of their vanguard. In particular, a god with black skin and a cape made of jaguar fur had a triumphant grin on his face and laughed nonstop. His laughter grew, grew, and grew, until it became very annoying to the nearby gods.

“Hey, come on! What’s up with you? Have you gone crazy?”

Upon that question, the god Tezcatlipōca finally relaxed on his seat, laughing more quietly.

“I… I really believe this is the right occasion to make that bastard shine again. Yeah… that damned brilliant bastard.”

“Brilliant?” the others repeated, not understanding. Then the god, who was considered the black star of the Mesoamerican pantheon, started telling a story.

_ In an amorphous land, which was swampy and where mephitic fogs lingered, the origin of time was the most interesting thing that ever happened. _

_ He, Tezcatlipōca, was sent there to investigate why everything the gods created ended up being brutally destroyed.  _

_ And, right when he was slowly sailing that lake with his boat, the threat got to him. An anthropomorphic crocodile came out of the waves, with long feminine hair and hundreds of monstrous mouths placed everywhere. Cipactili, that was the name of the destroyer beast, roared ferally. _

_ “You foolish god! You thought you could end my banquet?” And he jumped on him, breaking part of the boat with his jaws. _

_ The god could have counterattacked, if that surprise attack hadn’t caught him unarmed, making him powerless. And when fear didn’t seem enough, he realized Cipactili had cut off his right foot too with his bite. _

_ He screamed in pain, and the boat started to sink and the putrid water reached him, to swallow him in the beast’s reign and meal. When every hope seemed to have abandoned him, brave and courageous warrior, his death was postponed: his eyes shut with fear, he only felt something ginormous crash in front of him, like a mastodonic pressure. _

_ An instant later, he got back to his senses, noticing what had happened. The landscape in front of him had changed: now a chasm had opened in the water, as big as an island, bringing down to unexplorable depths whatever it met, Cipactili included. Drops of blood, fragments of bones and organs reduced to mere particles, all these things were suspended in the air and then dragged down in the void. _

_ Tezcatlipōca would have been swallowed by that abyss too, along with his shipwreck, but a hand grabbed him mid-air. _

_ He looked up at the sky, and there he found the god of that celestial reign: no more than a kid, judging from the appearance. He didn’t look like a deity at all, with no frills nor ornaments, he just looked like a kid with hair as soft as a hatchling’s plumage and two eyes wide open on the world, which stared at him without talking. _

_ Quetzalcoatl, called the feathered serpent, had saved his life although he was the youngest god in his pantheon. _

“That’s why I say that kid is a monster.” Laughing even louder, the god raised his leg to show the stump he had instead of a foot. On his ankle, he sported a ribbon that ended with a trinket shaped like a feathered serpent.

“But he’s very talented and powerful! This bout could be over in a matter of seconds…”

Meanwhile, in a hidden corner of the tribunes, the trio of deserter gods was chatting.

“Did you hear what they say about Quetz?” Phobetor asked the mysterious god, who nodded without losing his composure.

“And so?” the god of nightmares insisted, astonished by the non-reaction. “Do you think Charlotte will give him hell? That one’s stronger than Prometheus and Enkidu together, while in terms of magic he rivals Baphomet and Sun Wukong. Unless she’s stronger than Vlad and Masutatsu...” But he was interrupted by his interlocutor.

“Not at all. Charlotte has no chance of winning, she could be crushed in less than a second.”

Ammit and Phobetor widened their eyes, astounded: “B-but then…?”

“This…!” the mysterious god readily intervened, raising his index finger “...if they were to fight. On the contrary, I think victory will be very easy to achieve.”

Although the two of them couldn’t understand the meaning of those words, their attention was drawn by a familiar sound: the beginning trumpet had been played.

“THIS IS HOW THE RAGNAROK BEGINS!!”

The general attention was instantly drawn to the two opponents.

What would they do? What would be their first move? With which strategy would they reach victory?

Quetz acted first: he talked.

“Ehm… sorry, lady? I came here for the match, but the one I have to fight isn’t here. Do you know where I have to go? I thought this was the arena, and the battle has begun, too…”

That confused and imploring tone was the only thing that resonated throughout the stadium, echoing in the minds of gods and humans from all the world and all times. In the most incredible silence ever, for the first time, no one knew what to say.

It lasted just a minute, because immediately Tezcatlipōca shouted from the grandstands: “You dumb idiot! She’s your opponent!”

And, following his lead, all the other deities started scolding the god, insulting him for his slow mind and perspicacity. Deafened by that hubbub, Quetzalcoatl covered his ear with an annoyed grimace.

“What the heck are you shouting for?! Huh? Oh, hi Tezcatlipōca!” He happily greeted his friend, and he got back even more insults that he couldn’t hear.

When the kid moved his eyes back on the person he was previously talking to, he saw she’d got barely an inch away from him. In his utter distraction, she’d nullified the distance between them.

“Sure.” Charlotte gave him the kindest of smiles. “I’ll help you out if you want.”

“Kill him! Kill him now that he’s not looking, that bastard!” the humans urged her, howling and abandoning themselves to the wildest and most shameless noises, sicced by such an easy victory.

“What are you waiting for?! What are you waiting for?! Tear him to pieces!” the serial killers growled, pitiless towards the clumsy god.

But the French, who, unlike the other, could clearly hear her supporters’ shouts, put a finger to her mouth and frowned in dissent.

“What?” she muttered to herself.

“Kill him? I could never kill a kid” she said, as, in a flash of pure frenzy, she jumped on her target, brandishing her knife with both hands to dive it into his defenseless head.

The audience held their breath, surprised by that unpredictable sprint, like a raptus of madness.

And during the span of that brief, but unending wince, a roar exploded.

Something, faster than a bullet, flew next to Charlotte’s face. It painted a blood stripe on her face, right under one of her eyes, apathetic and dull, as well as deprived of any amazement even in such an incomprehensible situation.

Her own knife had been rejected, bouncing backwards: understanding that was enough for her to freeze, becoming cold both in her body and blood. The blade fell behind her, interrupting the silence with a noise that echoed in the air.

“L-Ladies and gentlemen…” The two presenters gulped in vain, as astonished as the public.

“Even we find it hard to declare what happened! Charlotte… and Quetzalcoatl…! Unbelievable!”

Recovering from surprise, the gods burst out laughing hysterically in unison, maybe more with relief than anything else.

Tezcatlipōca’s voice raised again among the crowd, and this time the god stood up to talk directly to his friend: “Hey, Quetz! Make her pay! Now you should have understood you have to kill her, right?”

But the god covered with feathers simply turned to him, and with a natural voice he argued: “What do you mean, Tezcatlipōca? This lady said she’d help me find the match! Are you maybe dumb?!”

-Coming from you!- was the univocal thought of humans and gods, both quite astounded, although the first ones reacted with the same irritation and indignation as earlier, going back to showering him with cusses.

At the same time, Ammit and Phobetor were as amazed as the other by the recent events, but they noticed their colleague didn’t show the same astonishment. On the contrary, he smiled and giggled as usual, which was quite sinister.

“He’s really… really dumb” Ammit realized.

“And that’s not all.” The mysterious god looked at him, grinning: “It’s also thanks to Charlotte’s Sephirot… Chesed, Benevolence.”

“And what does it do? It doesn’t seem to have magical or attacking powers” Phobetor spoke, pointing at the rejected knife.

“No, indeed, but it turns a predominant feature of Charlotte into a weapon: the way she conceals her homicidal instinct to her target. With this power, she can attack Quetzalcoatl all the times she wants, without making her real intentions shine through.”

The god of nightmares admitted his surprise, knowing it would please his colleague. “But… why did the attack not land?”

“This…” Showing a glimpse of hesitation, the mysterious god bit his thumbnail, his face growing dark “I fear this could be quite an inconvenience.”

“Lady, did you trip?” Quetzalcoatl serenely asked, stepping closer to the girl who’d just tried to kill him. She’d already wiped off the blood drop on her candid cheek. However, that cheek had suddenly turned red.

“Ehm, oh heaven! What an embarrassment, yes!” Blushing with shame, she backed off, hiding her face in her hands.

“No, come on! No problem.” Overcome by guilt, even due to his nonexistent experience with the opposite gender, the god didn’t know how to act at all.

On the other hand, while he stuttered, he couldn’t imagine that Charlotte’s face was frowned, thinking about her next move.

“My… knife” she feebly asked, setting her embarrassment aside. She pretended to look around, but the god bravely pointed at it. “It’s there, lady! I’ll go fetch-”

“No, no. I’ll go, don’t bother, please!” the other interrupted him, blushing even harder. The god stayed aside not to let his guilt grow.

At that point, among the growing tension and the crowd’s suspended winces, she turned around and went to fetch her weapon.

“Are you a cook, lady?”

Upon that question, like a flash of light, something came to Charlotte’s mind.

She saw that knife in someone else’s hand, someone that was handing it to her.

_ “With this, you’ll cut even the most stubborn meat, mademoiselle!” _

She smiled, breathing in deeply. She almost felt as if she was reliving that Paris, imagining carriages, distinguished men and dames that strolled along the blossoming boulevards during that summer.

And the blood on the streets…

She snapped back just in time, with her knife now in her hands: “Yes, I really enjoy cooking. In the monastery I grew up in, they taught me and my sisters how to do it… so, when it closed, I took care of my elderly aunt and cooked for her.”

She talked inspiring tranquility and loving-kindness, but meanwhile she got closer and closer to an oblivious Quetzalcoatl, like a spider admiring its precious, trapped prey in a play of silver reflections on its web. The silver reflection on the knife looked like a kind as well as devilish smile.

It was an accident, a coincidence: maybe she tripped again, or the wind snatched the hat from her head, but that elegant, ancient headgear fell forward.

It was placed exactly in front of the god’s face, obscuring his senses for an instant. And that instant, Charlotte had been premeditating it and waiting for it with surgical precision.

- **Oiseau de Proie**!-

She dashed forward, twirling her knife in a flurry of slashes that drew a tornado of ephemeral lights in the air.

“Another surprise attack! There really is no end to Charlotte’s wickedness!” the presenters yelled out, followed by the human crowd’s cheers.

Phobetor and Ammit looked at the mysterious god with more condescending eyes: “So this is what you meant.”

“Yes, but…!” This time, the other bit his nail so hard he broke it, generating a spray of blood that stained his face. “...this way, it’s like a dog chasing its tail!”

All that anger and frustration seemed unjustified, but when the others looked back at the arena they got what he meant.

“But… but…” Adramelech and St. Peter, holding their breath, were wavering instead of talking. In the end, they burst in a shout: “But this time too, the attack didn’t land!”

In fact, on the battlefield, Quetzalcoatl had stayed still and, more surprisingly, unharmed. He’d just raised a hand, grabbing Charlotte’s hat by a corner.

The girl, now behind his back, turned around with a sweat drop running down her temple. Trying to soothe her nervousness in any way, she couldn’t hold back a cold shiver when she saw the god’s calm expression, who was now handing her her own headgear.

“Lady…” His flat, apathetic voice crushed her to the ground. “You should be more careful, running with a knife.” He pointed out a small cut on her hat, and Charlotte winced even more.

-Not only did he dodge all my attacks… he even found the time to protect my hat! Just how fast is he?!-

She felt her heart pounding in her throat, but the absence of any follow-up helped her calm down. There was no danger, and she noticed when she went back to thinking with a cool head.

She forced the most convincing smile she could: “Yes…”

-If he wanted to kill me, he would have already done it.-

Similarly, the question everyone was asking themselves was:

-Does Quetzalcoatl knows he has to kill her or not?-

“Why would he waste his time?! That idiot didn’t understand a thing!” Robespierre belted, hitting a nearby human with his cane. However, the blow was intercepted by a hand.

It was a tall and big man, with his dark skin crossed by ritual paintings and a leaf skirt. That Aztec warrior petrified the most feared man during the Revolution with a blood-freezing glance.

“You! You… have no idea of what Quetzalcoatl is capable of, he… who once wiped off the human race entirely.”

And while those words terrified whoever heard them, in the serial killer corner someone had a theory.

“Fate is playing with Charlotte…” Ted Bundy guessed. “It’s a psychological war to crush her, and all of us, with fear. We know that god could kill her with a single blow, but only if he wanted to, so… whether he knows he has to eliminate her or not, the wait is going to torture us until we get a final answer.”

Like pawns on the gods’ chessboard, those small, poor humans lived in terror of going towards the truth.

Charlotte, more aware than anyone, bravely stepped towards her opponent.

“Thank you.” She stretched her hand forward and took her hat back, putting it on her head.

“Oh, but… I dropped my knife again!”

“It’s impossible, he can’t fall for it again!” both gods and humans screamed in unison, caught off guard by that anti-climatic moment.

“Oh, really?! I’m sorry, I’ll look for it…” the god murmured, turning his back on the girl. 

“It’s unbelievable!” Again, a unanimous scream from the audience.

The French girl now had the god in front of her, bent over and totally defenseless. Their vicinity would make it impossible to dodge any attack.

Yes, but how would she attack him, if she had no knife? Upon this urgent question, Charlotte was pleased to surprise everyone with her umpteenth strategy.

The knife which she’d “dropped somewhere” was actually in her hands just seconds before, but as soon as she grabbed the hat, she’d hidden it there. Taking advantage of that distraction that tricked both the gods and the spectators, she now had a knife on her head.

- _Adieu_ …-

She dived the blade towards Quetzalcoatl’s neck. A neck that, against every prediction, had turned around.

“Sorry, lady, but weren’t you holding the knife a second ago?”

The most incredible stalemate in history.

Charlotte had turned to stone like a statue, reflected in the god’s eyes, widened millimeters away from her. He’d turned around with perfect timing, letting the knife dive into nothing, out of his field of view. Now, Charlotte’s hand was behind Quetzalcoatl’s head, still holding the knife: he couldn’t see it, and she couldn’t move.

But she moved, dropping the weapon.

“Oh, here it is!” Improvising in total desperation, she was surprised to see the god’s startled reaction when he heard the sound of the knife falling to the ground.

Distracted from what he’d said just seconds earlier, he bent again to pick it up.

A distraction he couldn’t afford. The deadliest mistake he could make.

“Charlotte has… has…” Even the presenters’ voice died in their throats, astounded by what they were seeing.

Charlotte Corday, challenging every dumb prediction and logical assumption, was wielding another knife. That additional weapon that would have given her victory, and that she was now lifting over her helpless target.

But she stopped. She hesitated. And again, against every prediction, she hid it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This fifth fight, as you may have well understood, is between one of the strongest gods and the weakest human of all the einherjar. Yeah, I didn't want to do an equal battle, for those there will be many opportunities in the future: I rather wanted to make a bout in which the weaker tries to prevail over an opponent who could wipe them out with minimal effort.  
> The attack by Charlotte "Oiseau de Proie", which in French means predatory bird, is a quote to one of the songs that inspired me in this battle: "Oiseaux de Proie" by the French post-rock band Alcest.   
> Join the official discord server to stay updated: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> See you tomorrow!


	18. Why Do I Kill?

**Chapter 18: Why Do I Kill?**

“You’re really clumsy, lady” Quetzalcoatl told her, giving her back the knife he’d picked up from the ground.

She brought it to her chest, showing her gratefulness with an elegant bow.

“Why… why did she decide not to attack?!” Tezcatlipōca asked himself, still breaking cold sweats from the risk his friend had taken.

Everyone had clearly seen Charlotte take out another knife, but moments before landing a blow that would have been deadly, she gave up.

Even on the other tribune, someone was just as perplexed: Marie Antoinette propped up her head on her fingers, a frown on her face: “Such an indecisive _mademoiselle_ must have no success among men… I wonder what happened to her…”

“Ladies and gentlemen… this bout becomes more unpredictable by the second” the presenters announced. “No such thing had ever happened until toda-”

“Hey, you two!” Quetzalcoatl loudly called, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. The volume was so high it astounded everyone, and it generated a gust of wind that went up the grandstands and reached the cabin where St. Peter and Adramelech worked.

No challenger had ever directly addressed the announcers during the battle, so the two of them weren’t sure how to react.

“I have a request! Could you change this battlefield? I don’t like it!”

The whole audience was left astonished and exasperated by the naive and chaotic god.

Soon, constructions of wood, plastic, and iron rose from the ground: swings, seesaws, climbing poles, slides, hurdles, and other similar playground games. The arena where the fate of mankind would be decided had turned into a playground.

“Amazing!” Quetzalcoatl bellowed, jumping from side to side with all the energy in the world. Suddenly, he jumped high and landed in front of Charlotte, who flinched in surprise when he took her hands.

“Lady! While I wait for my opponent, can we play?” He was candid, pure, and innocent like a child, with a childish side he couldn’t suppress.

The girl, in front of such genuine enthusiasm, couldn’t not tear up a little.

She tilted her head, smiling sweetly: “Sure…”

Meanwhile, around them, great confusion lingered. Gods and humans wondered what had been of the match, while they watched the two of them play on the playground like two classmates during recess.

However, although the atmosphere was light and playful, Charlotte hadn’t forgotten about her goal: thanks to her Sephirot, Chesed, she was able to look happy and involved in Quetz’s games, while she planned the best way to kill him.

Normally, a wrong glance would have been enough, the classic gaze a lurking predator gives its prey, to make the Mesoamerican god notice the danger he was running every second. Every time he was inches away from Charlotte, or every time he turned his back on her, he risked his life. But she didn’t have to worry about that, because it was impossible to spot the homicidal intent in her eyes.

And gaining his trust, the French could learn a lot about him.

For example, when they had to retrieve the climbing rope, which was tied too high to be reached, Quetzalcoatl opened a pair of green and red wings and flew. In that form, he seemed to be quicker than a human eye could ever notice.

Or, in a more relaxed moment where they bet on who would manage to slap the other’s hands, Charlotte missed every single time. However, when she let the god hit her on purpose, she noticed his speed and his reflexes were totally average.

-It’s clear, then…- Inside her mind, where she could let her thoughts and impulses run free, some gear started moving. 

-When I attacked him the first time, my knife was rejected… and in the same way, the second time I didn’t even graze him. But he didn’t avoid those blows knowingly: he has a protective barrier!-

At that point, observing him from up close and paying attention to all the noises his body made, she noticed a barely audible but fiery rustle, coming from a strange aura that permeated his skin. 

-Of course!- Her eyes widened, recognizing the obstacle she had to overcome to score her victory: -The wind!-

The wind armour that covered Quetzalcoatl was almost always active, except for when he voluntarily wanted to touch something, like before when he grabbed her hands. Then, if he deactivated it by his own will, he would be helpless.

The “how to” was the question that taunted Charlotte every second, as she pretended to enjoy that kid’s company.

Anyway, they had fun together with all the games that unexpected park offered.

“You know, it reminds me of the country I was born in…” Charlotte confessed at a point, as she rested on a bench.

“Was there a playground?” Quetzalcoatl curiously asked, making her smile.

“No, I was in the countryside… but I played all day long with my sisters, and my friends from the nearby farms. Then, when I went to live in a monastery and later in the city, I didn’t have time to play anymore.”

“Wasn’t there a playground in the city?” he insisted, this time without amusing her. Charlotte darkened a little, bowing her head and letting the shadow of her hat conceal her face.

“It wasn’t… exactly the place to have fun.”

One could sense sadness, bitterness, and melancholy, like when you talk about long-gone times, but also something else: a feeling that makes you curl your nose, your face turn hot, and your guts twitch.

Noticing she’d clenched her fists with rage for that whole time, Charlotte decided to calm down. Going back to simulating the facade she’d held up until then, she looked at the god with a dazzling smile.

She saw him surprisingly concentrated on his thoughts and a bit bummed.

“Do you want to play tag you’re it?” she asked, distracting him from that moment of curious introspection. He nodded energetically.

“I’ll warn you: I’m invincible at tagging!” Quetzalcoatl puffed his chest proudly. 

“Oh, I can imagine…” Charlotte didn’t lose her composure, and keeping that playful smile of hers, she didn’t hesitate to rip her skirt in the centre. This unexpected gesture astonished both the god and the audience, but then she went on, also ripping off the lower part and the train.

Now, with her naked legs uncovered up to the knees, her gaze was more intense and serious, although she was still smiling.

“But I’ll be no less!” she stated provocatively, and after that she sprinted away.

The unpredictability of what had just happened made the god waver for a bunch of seconds, then he was shaken by a shiver. He burst out laughing.

“That’s the way I like it!” he snickered, prowling like a cat and running in pursuit.

“It’s become a competition of… tag you’re it?!” The two chancellors and presenters were astounded, but they chronicled that chase too.

Although Quetzalcoatl’s movements were as swift as the wind, making him able to slip in between the constructions with great agility, Charlotte hid her presence after disappearing from her opponent’s field of view, keeping the advantage. Her endurance, however, was in no way like the god’s, who tirelessly flipped over the whole playground to find her, while she was forced to stop and catch her breath every now and then.

The chase continued, the distance between the two of them shortening exponentially, until the girl could no longer disappear from Quetzalcoatl’s sight. She was at arm’s reach.

Charlotte ran towards the sandbox where they’d built some castles.

Some more acceleration, and she would reach it.

She leapt forward. She stretched her legs as much as she could, as nimble as an athlete. She tripped on the air, and when she landed she found something under her feet.

Meanwhile, Quetzalcoatl had reached her.

But that second, intended as everything that brief but crucial instant consisted of, was part of Charlotte’s plan. The girl, in fact, had landed on a shovel, common when building sand construction, but that had now turned into a trap: stepping on the large end, the shovel handle lifted, becoming an obstacle in front of the god’s ankle.

He tripped, and so did Charlotte, with the only difference being that she’d turned around during the fall, as if to cushion the kid’s fall. Her intentions, however, were a lot less noble, as the knife she’d pulled out demonstrated, on which her target was falling. Just like the plan.

-No!- The girl felt the wind pressure crushing her, and in that instant, on the line between life and death, her senses sharpened to answer every question.

-The wind… it’s still there!- The shield that protected her opponent was still there, it hadn’t dissolved, and now it was about to collide with the tip of the blade.

-If it were to reject it now…!- She already saw the knife being jammed into her body with the force of a bullet, and that vision was enough to make her skin crawl.

She opened her arms and, as if nothing had happened, she caught the boy. In that improvised hug, they fell on the sand without hurting themselves, or better, without dying. A mere instant more, and the fate of the battle would have drastically changed, but no one ever knew.

After getting a bump on her chest, the girl muttered: “Are you okay?”

Quite the ironic question, coming from someone who wanted him dead.

He didn’t answer, so she insisted: “Are you… okay?” But her voice died in her throat.

What she had in her arms wasn’t the playful kid from before, but a monstrous creature: his skin had broken into edgy scales, as fangs and horns as white as ivory grew nonstop. The colours of his plumage had become more fiery, like a bristly, deadly fur.

A scent of sulphur came from his body.

Before Charlotte could say something, she saw out of the corner of her eye what the boy’s eyes were focused on: his own knee, where a small wound, a bruise, revealed the red of blood. Then, with a spark, the air caught on fire.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The voice from the megaphones could barely overcome the roar of the flaring column that had exploded on the battlefield.

“We’ve finally had a taste of Quetzalcoatl’s tremendous fury!” 

Upon that manifestation of divine power, the gods themselves were dumbfounded, while the humans were left speechless. 

Tezcatlipōca just gulped in shock, then relaxed in his seat. He whistled with admiration, but something inside him made him restless. 

“Quetzalcoatl…” he muttered, abandoning himself to primordial times very few remember.

_ “Quetz! Do you like humans?” He’d asked the god one time that he descended on Earth to visit him. _

_ Taking turns, the two of them and another bunch of gods had decided to take care of humans and make their world a better place. His tentative, called Tezcatlipōca’s Sun, wasn’t that efficient: because of the wound he’d suffered against Cipactili, his energies were insufficient to fuel a sun strong enough to give the humans enough light. And, after the unanimous decision to assign the task to a healthier god, it was Quetzalcoatl’s turn. _

_ With the god’s limitless power, the sun burnt fiercely, consequently fueling the humans’ energy. They woke up at sunrise, and worked until the sun set on the horizon. In a short time, they’d created an impressive civilization. _

_ However, upon that question coming from Tezcatlipōca, the feathered serpent had answered: “No.” _

_ He was sitting by himself on a mountain, his head hidden between his knees, and he was drawing circles in the dust. The jaguar god, surprised, looked at him in confusion. _

_ “What’s with these humans? Why don’t you like them?” _

_ “They don’t play with me. They’re always by themselves” the other childishly mumbled. This reaction made Tezcatlipōca giggle, but he tried to hold back out of respect for his friend. _

_ “Come on, don’t act like this… I’m sure sooner or later they’ll play with you.” _

_ “I said I don’t like them.” A scent of sulphur. _

_ The god noticed the danger too late, when the clouds had already gathered, as black as a starless and sunless sky, above mankind’s land. The air pressure was crushing, it cracked the ground and shook mountains. _

_ “Can’t we just… wipe them off, and try with another sun?” _

_ In the utter darkness, Quetzalcoatl’s naive eyes shone, waiting for a response from his friend. However, the jaguar god was speechless, contemplating a world that had plummeted into obscurity and where mankind had been annihilated because of a whim. _

“We could… play another game of your choice… okay?”

Challenging the heat of the burning flames, the fumes, and the crimson death that threatened her, a feeble voice spoke.

In pain it was as delicate as a caress, or perhaps as a hug. Just like the hug that saw Charlotte clinging to the burning pyre Quetzalcoatl had become, his furious eyes a blinding white.

“B-But… I’m hurt!” In the fire, the god desperately cried, and two red tears crossed his face. However, the girl, enduring a pain that was infinite times more intense, laughed: her laughter was as pure and clear as the gurgling of a spring.

“That? It’s nothing. Watch how it goes away…” She bent on the god’s knee and, putting her lips on the flaming skin, she kissed his bruise. No one would have believed that event, had they not seen it with their own two eyes.

And even more incredible was what followed: the pyre that reached the sky died down, then disappearing with a wisp of smoke dissolved in the air. From the storm to the calm.

Quetz looked at his feet, still trembling with his face wet with tears: Charlotte tolerated her wounds, marked with fire, her clothes almost completely burnt, she looked like the most beautiful creature in creation. With the smile she gave him, repeating that _“then, now it’s up to you to choose the game”_ , she made the god’s heart skip a beat.

He blushed and wiped the tears off his face as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to be seen as a child anymore.

“O-Okay, lady!” And, full of pride, he showed a dazzling smile. “Let’s play a game from my country!”

“Ladies and gentlemen… what did we just witness?” the announcers said, their voices choked due to shock. The whole audience had seen that deflagration of energy, which was impressive even for a god, nullified by the simple, loving gesture of a human.

“It’s like the story of the mouse who takes the thorn out of the lion’s paw” Danton commented, being then judged with a dirty look by the other revolutionary, Robespierre.

“What are you talking about?! A murderer remains a murderer, even if they do something good!”

And the painter David, standing on the sidelines with his thoughts, narrowed his eyes and racked his brains: -Murderer? Yes, it’s correct to say that Charlotte’s goal is to kill Quetzalcoatl, but… was what she did just now merely fiction? Such a kind, motherly gesture?-

A similar thought process made Phobetor exclaim: “I got it!” And, looking at his companions: “She’s not trying to kill Quetzalcoatl, but his will to fight!”

Up above on the gods’ grandstands, the same thought was taunting the jaguar god Tezcatlipōca.

-Quetz… who destroyed humanity on a whim! Quetz… who has an extraordinary power even among gods, but who’s too immature to control it....- He started sweating profusely, trying not to make it obvious.

-This naiveté of his could cost him! Especially if Charlotte’s target isn’t his body, protected by the impenetrable **Barrier of Xolotl** … but that gullible side of his. If she gets him to surrender out of pity, she’ll spare herself a corpse, but it’d still bring mankind to victory…-

The battle was far from ending.

The game from Quetzalcoatl’s homeland turned out to be _pok-a-tok_ , of Mayan origin. The god ordered to set up two small, ring-shaped baskets on one wall of the arena, so that the holes were opposite to one another.

Then, after taking a rubber ball, he made it spin on his finger and explained: “All you have to do is send the ball through the opponent’s ring. But you can’t use your hands or feet, that’s the only rule. You can use your knees, tummy, hips, head…”

As she got lost in the explanation, Queen Marie Antoinette was happy to finally see a non-violent game.

“ _Parbleu_! It sounds _fantastique_! I want to play too” she said enthusiastically.

“According to the rules, the team who loses gets sacrificed to the gods, and their heads are burnt in a fire” a Mayan warrior added, completely ruining her expectations and making her pout.

“Oh, thanks a lot, huh!”

“I think I got it, let me try.” Charlotte beckoned at the other to pass her the ball. The pass was effectuated with a precise and athletic hip swing, drawing a parable in the air. Strangely enough, the girl didn’t move to catch it, and she stood still, her feet on the ground.

She moved at the last second: she lifted her knife and hit the ball. Everyone expected it to pop and deflate, but she sent it back with a high pass.

Even Quetzalcoatl was phased. Then, he smelled the scent of blood.

“Charlotte…!” Adramelech flinched, followed by St. Peter: “...decided to hurt herself?!”

It seemed foolish, but it was right under everyone’s eyes: the French girl didn’t hold her knife from the handle, but from the blade. Her hands were wounded in the impact with the ball, however, ignoring the drops of blood streaming down to the ground, she was unbothered.

“No hands” she said boldly, as if to debunk any opposition against what she’d done.

Then, she retrieved her second knife and threw it.

The spectators held their breath.

“What is she doing?! He has the barrier, did she forget?!” Ammit yelled, surprised by that inconsiderate gesture.

On the contrary, Tezcatlipōca jumped on his feet, seizing the moment: “Now, Quetz! She showed her true intentions, kill her!”

All the screams from both humans and gods, each of them hopeful for their vanguard, died in a matter of seconds when more blood was spilt in the arena. 

With no Barrier of Xolotl to shield him, now Quetzalcoatl had a knife protruding from the exact centre of his chest, embedded in the tender meat up to the hilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I hope you are enjoying the continuation of the fight! Let's talk a little bit of curiosity:  
> For the appearance of Quetzalcoatl, or rather for the colors, I relied on the real animal that gives it its name, namely the Quetzal. In short, our Quetzalcoatl is like a small bird, but with a scaled armor and snake eyes.  
> Then, I know that Charlotte's power may seems useless, but let's put it this way: if any person around you, even someone who has always been close to you (family, friends, the doorman, etc.) wanted to kill you… how easily would they succeed? Surely a lot, because there is the suspicion that that person may want to kill you, and this would lead you to be vulnerable at any moment of your life around them.  
> Still…! In the end something seems to have happened. Why wasn't the barrier of wind up?   
> Tomorrow I'll take a break to finish the cover of this fight.  
> Check the story's official Discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	19. For Peace, Of Course

**Chapter 19: For Peace, Of Course**   
_Once upon a time, there was a kingdom that tumbled down to the hands of men and women who wanted justice, and dragged that same country down into an even deeper injustice. The Revolutionaries said they talked to the people, but the people they wanted to listen to was monstrous brutality that was tearing France apart. And the crueler monster of all was the voice from the belly and the violence of those people: Jean-Paul Marat._

_Every time the Jacobins, who wanted to put an end to the violence that fueled the civil war in the streets, asked the Revolutionaries in charge to stop, Marat increased the number of heads he wanted to see chopped off by a guillotine. The solution was always death._

_So, to destroy that monster that terrorized good people, one day a girl coming from nothing, without telling anything to anybody, got out of her anonymous house to change her country’s fate._

And now, that same woman had stabbed a god. Blood was once again a perfect witness, something that talks before the voice can, and states the weakness to death we’re all subject to.

“She… hit him?!” That was something no one managed to explain. The two chancellors yelled out, incredulous. “Yes, indeed! She hit him!! Charlotte Corday landed her first hit on Quetzalcoatl!”

“ _Mit ‘nem Messer in der Brust_ …” the mysterious god hummed, reminiscing the previous bout. Seeing him so carefree and gleeful, his two colleagues couldn’t refrain from grabbing him by the collar, furious.ef

“Would you care to explain what’s going on?!”

“Who, me?” he said, in confusion. “Oh, I don’t understand a thing. Ask her instead… or maybe, Quetzalcoatl himself.”

And he pointed at the battlefield.

Or better, the _pok-a-tok_ field, where the match was still being played: the ball was still flying, thrown by Charlotte before the knife, but much slower. Quetzalcoatl wavered, hesitating because of shock and pain, but he caught the ball jumping and hitting it with his knees.

“Incredible! Quetzalcoatl acts like nothing happened and keeps on playing, ladies and gentlemen!”

Tezcatlipōca clenched his teeth and his fists as much as he could, desperate: “Why?! Why are you doing this, Quetz?!”

But only Charlotte knew the answer, since the god had spoken to her.

“After all, you’re playing with a penalty… so it’s fair that I have one, too.” And on his bloody lips, his usual, innocent, smug smile formed.

The French reciprocated, blocking the ball with her knife before it went through her ring.

Like a normal match between friends, although with sprays of blood that rose from time to time, the two of them kept playing. The girl felt her hands tear, and her fingers were about to come off, while the other had a knife planted in a non-fatal spot that still cut his breath short and caused him copious internal bleeding.

In that crazy exaggeration, the girl intercepted the ball and sent it as high as possible. The pass seemed far too high compared to her target, but Quetzalcoatl recognized the trap right away: that parable would land perfectly in his ring, coming down at an angle that was impossible to catch last minute. So he used all his remaining strength to jump high, and then spread his wings to go even higher up.

“I… don’t have wings” Charlotte pointed out, as serious and glacial as a knife blade. The same knife she was now holding from the handle.

The god shivered at the sound of those words, and everyone saw him petrify mid-air. A moment later, two knives stabbed through his wings, staining those shiny feathers with red.

“T-The wings too?!” the announcers screamed, anticipating the gods’ despair. “If Charlotte didn’t manage to land a single blow before, now she’s butchering Quetzalcoatl!” 

“It’s… fair” the god said, coughing up blood mid-air. “I shouldn’t have… cheated.”

To play a fair game, he was letting her hit him on purpose: it was his demonstration of trust, his stubborn correctness that transcended every common logic. With a smile he admitted his faults and even punished himself, letting the other decide the comeuppance he had to undergo. Just to have fun.

“Do not worry, it’s nothing” the girl answered, lovingly.

“But… I’m not done yet.”

Soaring up like a star, and fitting perfectly inside the sun from Charlotte’s point of view, the god didn’t let go of life. First he parried the ball with his chest, then he exploited the acceleration of his flight and the inertia of his fall, since he’d started plummeting to the ground, to somersault: he did a pike, and with a bicycle kick with his calf he sent the ball straight into his opponent’s ring.

He expected a cheering chorus, but all he got was a confused wince.

Even Charlotte was speechless, now that her fine murderous plot seemed to have met a setback. She didn’t know what to expect now that the game was over, and the unknown sent a chilling shiver down her spine.

“Lady…” Once he landed, Quetz proceeded to take the knives out of his body, handing them back with a fatigued yet enigmatic smile. “...these are yours. What are we playing now?”

And with that cryptic phrase, that undoubtedly hinted to the end of all games, anyone would have understood it was the end for Charlotte.

If with the first knife she’d accurately decided not to kill him, as to not raise suspicions on her murderous intent, and with the other knives she aimed to wound his wings he moved at high speed with, the final goal was always to eliminate Quetzalcoatl’s supposed omnipotence. There, in front of everyone, she’d peel the myth of the invincible god one layer after the other, using trust and kindness, in a perfect scheme that, if executed without mistakes, would go smoothly.

But, with that provocatory question, Quetzalcoatl threatened to have understood it all. He’d come to a secret conclusion, which had to stay that way to keep the plan going: Charlotte had played a game of life and death with him. And now it was time to play au pair.

But Charlotte Corday didn’t give up to that doubt, and with pride and elegance she smiled back.

“There it is…” The painted David had an epiphany, because his mind had been solicited to remember such an impressive event that it gave him shivers of tension even now that he was merely a soul. “That smile…”

**_17 of July, 1793_ **

_There was no good nor bad, no just people and no criminals. On the guillotine only the “enemies of the people” were executed, to set an example for the supposed “friends of the people”._

_Those names were worth nothing now, because the one who used them excessively to fuel the masses was dead: Jean-Paul Marat, murdered just a couple of days earlier._

_And in a time where simply seeming to be against the Revolutionaries and for the monarchy was enough to be killed, like for example using a handkerchief or preferring white bread, that day a completely new creature was brought to the guillotine: a monster._

_But that monster didn’t cry, nor scream, or cussed blasphemies as one would expect. She, Charlotte Corday, so beautiful it made everyone who’d never seen her before go mute, walked towards the guillotine with her head up high, proud. Not even the queen had gone towards death that way._

_The executioner stood between her and the guillotine, to lower her head and take her to the headrest, but she refused with her usual sweet smile: “I beg of you, I have the right to see it: I’ve never seen one before!”_

_And the executioner, set back by that decision, let her walk on her own._

_At that moment Jacques-Louis David, sitting in his place of honour as an ally of the Revolution, could witness that unique and incredible show. If he were to be asked to paint magnificence on the verge of extinction, he would have surely painted a comet, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon before they were destroyed, or the Rhodes Colossus before it sunk… along with that smile._

_He even heard her mumble to herself:_

_“A death machine to kill the rich and the poor without distinction… he liked it so much, the friend of the people. Maybe I was too kind to give him such a unique death.” In her empty eyes, determination lingered, unwavering even while facing death, and therefore scary._

“I was thinking…” Going back to the present, Charlotte finally answered the god’s question. “...what if we concluded the challenge from before? Now it’s me who tags, and you run.”

Every tension or fake, polite distance they both held while talking to each other had been cut off. No embarrassment, no inhibitions, just what they really felt.

Quetzalcoatl grinned with his sharp teeth: “Good!”

The new challenge, the last challenge, began when the god sprinted away.

With the wounds he’d collected he surely couldn’t move that fast, and he couldn’t even escape with his wings, but he ran vigorously enough. The only difference from a normal game of tag was that the one who chased him was dragging along an immense avalanche of death, like a hood, that swallowed her path.

Charlotte had now given up her Sephirot that concealed her intentions, so now she wielded that homicidal intent she’d held back for such a long time. She seemed to trample everything, stretching out invisible hands towards her opponent’s back.

Quetzalcoatl wasn’t just running. He was a prey.

Everywhere he hid, he was forced to run away as fast as he could when he felt death tingle on his skin, and moments later a blade plunged into nothing, barely missing him. The girl kept disguising murder as a game, so she hit only when the god turned his back on her to run away: she only had to shorten the distance more and more, and that fraction of time would turn into victory.

She felt powerful. A predator. And everything she did was for mankind: they were watching her, and therefore she couldn’t give up. All the flames and the pain in the world wouldn’t be enough to make her hesitate, because that way even the hopes of her people would crumble.

Her people…

**_11 of July, 1793_ **

_“You want to… save your people?” The man in the bathtub asked the girl he’d just let into his house._

_She answered affirmatively: “As I wrote in the letters I sent you this morning, monsieur.”_

_“You…” he cut her off: “You actually wrote you want to save your homeland, and serve France, with the Revolution, obviously. You didn’t talk about people.”_

_At that point, the girl stayed silent. An attentive eye could see her hands were trembling._

_“You stated you’re from Caen” he vulgarly whistled in admiration. “From Caen to Paris. All this way for the Revolution… and now you talk to me about saving the people.”_

_“Because the people…!” she finally spoke, raising her voice in a wince, but still firmly and strongly. “Monsieur… it’s the people who suffer. The people starve, the people are scared, their hearts are broken when they lose a son, a husband, a loved one… a country has no feelings.”_

_That last statement would have normally brought her to death, but she was sly not to give up: “But a country can do a lot for the people! A country can… be in peace. So no one has to suffer anymore.”_

_Marat’s inquisitive gaze gave in. He couldn’t simulate a haughty distance anymore, because when he heard those words his heart skipped a beat._

_“Correct!” he cheered, beaming, hitting the water with his fists in an impulsive and childish gesture._

_“That’s exactly what I mean! We get along about peace!” Marat smiled: “Everyone wants a hero to bring them peace. That’s the reason humans pray to gods, or vote a leader. I don’t consider myself a hero, but a friend of the people!”_

_“You desire peace too…” Charlotte didn’t have a precise interlocutor anymore, as lost as she was in her thoughts, blurry and dark as night. “But how do we obtain it? This I wonder.”_

_“How?” The man’s eyes widened along with a sharp grin: “With the guillotine, of course! We’ll start with those traitors you reported to me earlier, executing them tomorrow. Do you know why the guillotine was created? To give fair justice in death with no distinctions between kings or plebeians! To the traitors, maybe it will be a boast to be killed by the same blade that beheaded the old royals!”_

_And he burst in such spontaneous laughter that it infected, in that climate of confidence and friendship, even Charlotte._

_The woman laughed, laughed, and laughed. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she grabbed the knife she’d hidden in her breasts and stabbed Marat around the collarbone._

_“Then the death I’m giving you will be a blessing to you… so out of the ordinary. Your voice that sics the people and asks for more heads will no longer rise over Paris.”_

_The man screamed, but only reddish foam came out of his mouth. Red sprayed tinged the water, rising to stain the porcelain face of the woman who now smiled at him._

_“I am the heroine everyone wants… adieu, Ami du Peuple.” And she terminated that verdict with a kiss on the forehead, as the man twitched with spasms, then relaxing in the bathtub with an arm drooping over the edge._

_Marat’s wife, who’d peeked the whole time through the door, let out an anguished scream, running to help her husband. In spite of her, and even when the gendarmes came and got a hold of her to arrest her, the girl didn’t stop smiling, nor laughing._

_When, days later, she was brought to trial, her end was in sight. No one managed to accept it was her who killed Marat, and now that stomach hungry for blood called the people wanted her head._

_Robespierre, Danton, and even the painter David looked at her with slight disgust and horror. No, it was fear. Charlotte was aware that she, a girl coming from the countryside, had killed a monster. It was like the fairytales she used to read as a child, or her heroine who’d become a saint, Jeanne D’Arc._

_“What did you want to obtain by assassinating Marat?”_

_It was as if a dose of a wonderful drug was shot in her veins: it was pure bliss. She didn’t see wroth faces nor heard furious voices, she just perceived a fantastic melody around her._

_It wasn’t the present world, but the prediction for the future. A destiny that would make everyone happy._

_“Peace!” That was the only way she could describe it. “Now that he's dead, peace will reign in my country!”_

_(Charlotte Corday’s testimony, 16 of July 1793, Revolutionary Tribunal)_

“You… you feel shame in front of humans.”

Those words made Quetzalcoatl shiver. He didn’t have time to turn around, so he didn’t even know where that voice came from. It was in the air, everywhere.

“I got it” Charlotte went on. Maybe she wasn’t even chasing him anymore.

“Ever since you took the field, you’ve been wearing a mask… you seemed to be having fun, but you actually just wanted to be distracted. You knew all along that I was your opponent.”

“Shut up!” The god stopped, feeling the immense space around him smothering him. He was sweating, trembling. He was shaken and couldn’t calm down.

“What happened to you? It’s something from your life, right? Something you did… a mistake… someone you’ve lost… an error?”

Quetzalcoatl clenched his fists and his teeth: “Shut up!!” The wind was accumulating, coating him.

His Barrier of Xolotl was impenetrable, but he couldn’t do anything against words.

“So someone died…”

“Don’t say it… don’t say it… don’t-”

“....because of you?”

“GRWAAARGH!!” The scream was actually a roar, as if a dragon had awakened. The skin of the feathered serpent god burnt from the inside, and the heat went up to his brain, setting his thoughts aflame and making him blind. It wasn’t just rage: it was pain, suffering.

He put his hands forward, and all the wind he’d accumulated and compressed stretched, releasing a whirlwind of impressive pressure. That flux was enough to pulverize everything it stumbled upon, digging a groove that went up to the opposite wall of the arena. It crashed there, carving a gigantic, perfectly round-shaped basin.

“That was the **Cannon of Ehecatl**!” Tezcatlipōca recognized it, while he noticed along with all the other spectators that the whole stadium was quivering.

Even the announcers felt they were in danger.

“The magic shield barely resisted!” Adramelech grunted, out of air.

“And we’re strengthening it bout after bout! I don’t think it can handle another similar blow!” St. Peter was very worried, and looked at his colleague, hesitating. “Should we… suspend…?”

The demon looked at the battlefield, thinking about what a risk it would be if they suspended the bout.

And now, in the half-destroyed city square, as if it had been crossed by a typhoon, everything had come to a halt.

Quetzalcoatl’s eyes were lost, but held a shining and vivid restless flame, insane, exasperated. He still suffered.

_“Yay, I did it! Finally the humans will live in peace!” A goddess cheered happily. Although she was living that moment of personal satisfaction, she chose to turn to him, letting him see the beautiful smile on her face._

_“What do you think, Quetz? Did I do good?”_

_“Yes… you were amazing.”_

It was tears. Not a flood.

Tears were coming out of his eyes, sliding down on his cheeks and wetting Charlotte’s chest as she hugged him tight. She didn’t want to let go of him because for the first time since the beginning of the bout she, too, had abandoned her mask of lies and fiction.

They were both, finally, sincere. But not opponents.

“Tell me, please… tell me what about humans made you suffer…”

It was a flood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Charlotte's flashback:  
> I'm not a historian, and I can't be one hundred percent sure about how certain historic characters would react. But I'm doing my best to reconstruct their personalities with the info I have. I'm obviously not planning on writing a historically accurate fic, but there has to be some coherence in my opinion... I'm also counting on changing the image you readers have about a specific character, but that's another story.  
> Hope you're ready for the conclusion! Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	20. Why Do I Kill? (Final)

**Chapter 20: Why Do I Kill?** **(Final)**

_Once Cipactili was vanquished, the Earth where humans would proliferate had been created. Unfortunately, neither Tezcatlipōca’s nor the god of rain Tlaloc’s attempts were successful. The human race was always flawed, or so were the sun and the world created for them._

_ For example, Tezcatlipōca’s sun wasn’t bright enough, while Tlaloc’s was way too intense. _

_ The gods were still debating on that last failure. _

_ “Even if you’re fucking depressed, you could at least try!” the jaguar god roared, giving a dirty look to a blue-skinned god, his body studded with precious stones, two of them where his eyes should have been. _

_ “Come on…” he answered after a long pause. “Don’t nag me.” _

_ The jaguar god tipped over, clutching his head in his hands and screaming: “What a pain in the ass!” _

_ When he got back up, he hadn’t calmed down at all. “This is the third time in a row we failed to create a world for humans! Do you know what kind of impression we’re making on the gods? How can we even show up to the Counc-” _

_ “We failed for the third time?” a tiny voice coming out of nowhere interrupted them. When the two of them turned around, their voices got stuck in their throats. _

_ Quetzalcoatl had entered the room and, after laying his headgear on the floor, he’d got close to them, curious. _

_ The two gods knew it: their second failure, called the Sun of Quetzalcoatl, was an awful stain on their careers. The small god had been even put to trial for wiping off mankind with no authorization from the gods whatsoever, but luckily he’d been acquitted. However, his tremendous and uncontrollable power was something that made them shiver. _

_ “We failed for the third tiiime?” another voice asked, this time feminine and way more shocked. _

_ It belonged to a girl, a bit taller than Quetz, with long blue hair and a jar-shaped hat on her head. She widened her eyes, which soon welled up with tears. _

_ “Nooo! That’s so sad! Poor Tlaloc, you must be so miserable!” And she ran and hugged the god of rain. _

_ “Uhm… yeah, I’m in neverending pain… wait, no! No. Don’t worry.” Embarrassed, he sought support from the other two. _

_ Tezcatlipōca tried to reassure the little one: “Come on, it’s nothing, Acuecuyoticihuati.” But while pronouncing that super long name, he bit his tongue and tipped over again. _

_ “Nooo! You bit your tongue because of my name.” She cried even harder, the goddess of water and beauty. _

_ “My sorrow is unfathomable… every day I wish to wake up and turn into cosmic nothingness” Tlaloc was whispering dramatically. _

_ That hopeless scene, with the three gods who should have been the light of hope for mankind, seemed like a lost cause. However, ignoring that despair, Quetzalcoatl laid a hand on the goddess’s forehead, ruffling her hair in a brotherly gesture. _

_ “Hey, Acu… it’s your turn now, buck up!” And he gave her the most encouraging and dazzling smile he could find. _

_ Just by looking at him, she felt warmed by his invigorating light, and couldn’t refrain from looking at him in awe. She sniffled, embarrassed: “Y-Yes, big bro Quetz!” _

_ And the sun of Acuecuyoticihuati, the fourth, marked an era of prosperity for mankind. Such a gentle light felt like a sweet kiss, because that was the kindness the goddess showed to humans. In exchange, they started worshipping her, because there had never been such a wonderful world.  _

_ Even the gods of the Council were surprised, and forgave the four Mesoamericans for the previous disasters. _

_ However, the energy she invested in making the world so perfect started to drain the young goddess. _

_ One day, apparently without reason, the accumulated tension ruined the atmosphere between the four of them. _

_ “What’s with you, Acu?!” Quetzalcoatl, who’d spent his time playing with human children until then, was suddenly alarmed by his friend’s sobbing. _

_ She found the goddess of water kneeled, crying, while Tezcatlipōca and Tlaloc tried to console her in vain. _

_ “I-I just told her it must be nice having the humans reciprocate her sun with all those prayers” the jaguar god tried to explain, but upon hearing those words, the goddess cried harder and harder. _

_ “Nooo! You think I’m haughty! I don’t want you to be envious of meee!” And she wept and wept, more and more. _

_ “Sorry, Acu!” Tezcatlipōca implored her, getting on his knees before her. “I beg you, hurt me, hit me, do whatever makes you feel better!” _

_ “No, hurt me instead!” Tlaloc got on his knees too, being hastily squared up by the other god. “What the hell do you have to do with this?!” _

_ Quetzalcoatl, unfazed by that scene, stepped forward, shoving the two gods aside. He bent over in front of his friend, raising her chin with his fingers to make her look him in the eye. “Hey…” _

_ Seeing her waver, he couldn’t bear the pain in his chest any longer: he impulsively hugged her, caressing her hair. _

_ “We all love you, Acu… you’re amazing, that’s a fact. Even if you don’t believe in yourself.. well, you should! If you trust me, and if you love me… then listen to me.” _

_ He heard her sob more softly, sniffling as she gradually stopped crying. “No, big bro Quetz… you don’t get it.” _

_ And breaking away from him, she bowed her head. There was shame on her face, along with worry, which made the three of them comprehend the severity of the situation. _

_ “I… lost control of my powers because of my tears.” _

_ “And…?” Tezcatlipōca asked, dead serious. _

_ “I destroyed the world.” _

_ The Earth, in those few seconds, had been hit by a devastating flood. All civilizations had been submerged, and the humans were swallowed by swirls. Once again, for the fourth time, a new sun had brought the umpteenth annihilation of mankind. _

_ “What?!” the jaguar god yelled, biting his fingers in panic. “The Divine Council will kill us!” _

_ Tlaloc, furious, grabbed him by the collar: “It’s your fault!” _

_ “My fault?! Coming from you! If you didn’t make such a mess last time, now the new sun wouldn’t have come down to-” _

_ “And what’s with that?” _

_ Everyone stopped. The goddess of water was on the brink of another desperate cry, wretched by guilt, but that voice had made her alert. _

_ “What… Quetz?” the jaguar god asked, seeing his companion unusually calm. “Do you understand we can’t afford to create another sun?!” _

_ “But I don’t want to” he simply responded, taking the goddess by the hands and stroking them: “This world created by Acu was so beautiful, the humans were amazing… there won’t ever be anything better than that for sure.” _

_ He got up and propping his fists on his hips he proposed, smiling: “If the problem is that all the humans have died, then we just have to take them back from the dead!” _

_ That declaration of his left the three of them dumbfounded, to the point that not even Tezcatlipōca’s wide mouth let out a single whisper. _

_ “B-But, big bro!” The goddess was so worried by that idea that she couldn’t not cling onto the feathered serpent, so hold him back. “We can’t! It’s against the rules!” _

_ “Oh, then I’ll go.” _

_ And with that affront, Quetzalcoatl did the unthinkable. _

_ He went down to the realm of the dead, where the souls suffered and screamed in a dark cave with unbreathable air. He descended for who knows how long until the very depths of the Earth, buried by the same distance that separated the surface and the sky. _

_ Until, arrived before a rotten door, twelve demonic figures came out of the shadows to block his path. They wore horrendous masks, merged with their clawed body, with feathers, blood-red wood, and stone. _

_ Hissing and roaring, they stood in his way. _

_ “We’re the twelve gods of death, and this is our kingdom!” _

_ “Yeah, fine, I gotta go” Quetz insisted as he kept on walking. A demon leapt right in front of him, making the cave quiver. He looked him dead in the eye, and behind him the others snickered. They were ravenous and ready for battle. _

_ “No sun and no wind can help you here! Go away, or…” _

_ An inconceivable boom interrupted every word, filling the realm of the dead with silence. When, recovered from the shock, the demons tried to understand what had happened, a blinding light surprised them. _

_ Now, above Quetzalcoatl, aligned with his arm pointed upwards, a hole had been opened in the cave’s ceiling. From it came a white light, and a feeble but cool breeze.  _

_ “What’s up?” the god asked, seeing the twelve back off in astonishment. _

_ “You said there’s no sun or wind, and you were right: I don’t like this place because it’s dark and smells stale. So I carved a hole for air.” _

_ Quetzalcoatl had no problems bringing back the human race from the dead, that fateful day. _

“And then… and then the humans…!” Quetzalcoatl was crying like a kid in his mother’s arms, as Charlotte gently stroked his hair. 

“They started worshipping me, and thanking me! Acu… A-Acu…” The god threw his head back, screaming, his face flushed and wet with tears. “She got no credit for it!”

Above them, on the grandstands, everyone had been left speechless by that incredible event.

“You idiot…” The jaguar god Tezcatlipōca had his arms crossed in a serious and stern pose, but his eyes were damp. “What kind of tragic past would this be? You’re really…an idiot!”

On his side, the god Tlaloc also smiled as he cried with emotion. “Yes, truly an idiot. DOn’t you agree, Acuecuyoticihuati?” But he bit his tongue and started twitching in pain.

The goddess, however, wasn’t listening to him, and with her hands on her mouth and her eyes full of tears she watched her friend as he opened his heart to that truth for the very first time.

The humans who’d worshipped those gods, and Quetzalcoatl in particular, were weeping with emotion too due to that unexpected admission from Quetzalcoatl.

“Oh, feathered… serpent…” the murmured in between sobs, shamelessly. Robespierre looked down on them and curled his mouth in disgust.

“Hey” Charlotte’s gentle voice whispered in Quetzalcoatl’s ear. The god, surprised, raised his head, meeting her loving gaze. “Look, now everyone knows...”

He looked around, recognizing understanding eyes, among both gods and humans. He, who’d voluntarily stayed away from them because of shame and guilt, for the first time he really felt touched by that appreciation that was being offered to him.

“Thanks, Charlotte” he whispered, finally smiling again. It was as if the sun had peeked from behind the clouds after a long torrential downpour. 

“But now… we have to go back to fighting…”

“No, we won’t: I give up!”

That voice of hers, although delicate, echoed throughout the whole arena, the whole colosseum, among all the spectators, so clear it was impossible to believe it.

Everyone was caught off guard.

The mysterious god, as well as Gaea, flinched to the point where they forgot how to breathe. Ammit’s and Phobetor’s jaws dropped to the floor in shock. Baal and Ptah widened their eyes, making them as big as wheels.

And lastly, the announcers who had their mouths pressed against the microphones felt their voice become weak.

“She… she…” They looked at each other again and again, to make sure of the truth. “She surrendered?!”

“What are you doing, Charlotte?!” The mysterious god screamed, leaning from the balcony towards the battlefield. But it was already too late.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s unbelievable but true, for the first time in the Ragnarok a fighter forfeits!”

Quetzalcoatl looked at the girl dumbfounded, but she didn’t seem to intend on losing her smile.

“What? Why?”

“Because it would be horrible if we killed each other in hate, when we discovered we’re not bound by those feelings at all. Don’t you think?” She’d started profusely crying, although she was still smiling.

“So the winner for this bout is… Quetzalcoatl!”

The gods obviously cheered with joy, proud to have conquered the second victory in a row. On the contrary, the humans, now at a disadvantage, abandoned themselves on their seats in discouragement and fear for their futures.

The feathered serpent, on the other hand, was neither happy nor sad. He was a bit confused, of course, but he felt positively marked by that encounter. “What should I say…?”

He looked in his friend's eyes, wanting to leave her with a big smile.

“Thanks for everything!”

“Thanks to you… **Adieu**!”

Quetzalcoatl’s voice died. It wasn’t a lump in his throat, but an almost pleasing sensation, cool but sharp at the same time. It didn’t take long for him to notice that Charlotte’s knife was now stabbed through his Adam’s apple, the tip coming out from his nape.

The girl had hugged him again, so he’d been distracted by the smell of her hair, now that his head was drooped on her shoulder. He couldn’t move, the weight of even a millimeter of his body was unbearable.

When he talked, a spray of little red drops stained the girl’s back.

“Farewell” he murmured, and smiled. It was strange, because in the end he was dying.

He never managed to see Charlotte’s tears once again, because the girl had never stopped crying, and now her cries were louder and louder. Pain clutched her heart, but she couldn’t do anything about it.

“What did she do?!” the gods exploded, astonished by that nefarious sight they couldn’t accept.

Someone called out for help, but when Quetzalcoatl’s lifeless corpse dropped to the ground and started shattering in shards of light, everyone understood there was nothing they could do.

“But… why?” The humans wondered, speechless.

Tezcatlipōca, Tlaloc, and Acuecuyoticihuati yelled out, panicked, unable to comprehend the motive behind such a violent, sudden, and unjustified event.

In the shadows, observing the scene, Fenrir grunted: “Shall I intervene?” He was still the chief of security after all, and killing a god after the end of the bout was a violation of the rules.

Or so he thought, because not even the person giving him orders didn’t know how to answer.

“Tremendous…” the announcers muttered, witnesses of an unprecedented event.

Then they tried to take the reins of the situation, they forced themselves to talk: “T-Take Charlotte away from the battlefield.” St. Peter turned the mic off, worriedly looking at his colleague.

“What do we do now?” And the other: “No idea. I guess we’ll just have to… wait for orders from above and communicate them.”

But there was radio silence in the whole Ragnarok arena. No one dared to express themselves on what had just happened.

A god hadn’t been defeated, nor had he simply died. He’d been murdered.

Shortly after, riding the wave of that collective wrath and indignation, Hel’s most irascible and terrible personality was taking over.

Luckily she was using her left hand to claw on the armrest of her comfortable armchair, while with the right hand she distractedly patted the silver wolf Fenrir’s head, who was laying on her knees with impassible eyes.

“Poor… poor Quetzalcoatl!” she cried with the left side of her face. “His fate was far worse than death… oh!”

“But the realm of the dead is your kingdom. Can’t you simply bring him back?” the wolf asked her, uninterested. Upon that question, the goddess abruptly turned around, showing the furious side of her face, an actual mask of deadly danger.

She luckily gained back her composure quickly, going back to sobbing: “No, no and no! The souls who die in the Ragnarok have no possibility of being revived, and they go to the Nifhel… where not even I can retrieve them.” 

Fenrir shrugged, enjoying his cuddles.

“But Fenrir… oh, Fenrir… those humans will know our wrath! The gods’ wrath!”

“Allow me to disagree” a third individual chimed in into their conversation, cutting her off.

On another side of the internal structure of the colosseum, some hurried steps signaled that Charlotte had gone back to the room reserved to the fighters.

Even when she entered, the tears hadn’t stopped pouring out.

It was right then that another woman, who’d patiently but apprehensively waited for her to return, walked towards her. She kissed her eyes to dry the tears, then she held her tightly, so tightly the two of them could feel each other’s heartbeats.

“Charlotte…” she murmured, releasing with a sigh all of her worry and restlessness. “Luckily you’re alive.”

The woman was a lot taller and sturdier than the French: her muscles were framed by a black and white leather armour, along with a fur collar that covered her shoulders too. Her hair, thick and red, was in a side part, while on the other side they were more sparse, but with thin braids that highlighted her square and rosy cheekbones.

Boudicca’s imposing and threatening stance was in perfect contrast with the blue eyes, clearer than the sky during spring, that Charlotte was looking at her with. Her thick lips were bent in a smile.

Despite all that affection, the girl’s mood wasn’t any better.

The woman hesitated, but determined to dig into her mind fogged by sadness to cheer her up, she had to ask that question: “Charlotte, why did you kill him?”

The other winced.

Boudicca insisted: “You’d surrendered. There didn’t have to be any deaths. Then why did you…”

“It was the goal” she answered in a single breath. “The goal” she repeated, lost in a trance.

The redhead arched her brows, then grabbed her shoulders and shook her. That was enough to make her go back to her senses, and make her cheeks gain colour. “Be more clear, girl!”

“Well, I knew it had to be a deathmatch. And…I had to kill him. So, even though I was sorry, and I’m still sorry…” She didn’t manage to go on, she was about to burst into tears.

Seeing her in that state, the woman hugged her again with pity, but she couldn’t overlook the senselessness of those words. However, she didn’t know the conditions that had made the girl think like that.

“I… I could have avoided it!” Charlotte was torn, weeping, until another touch grazed her.

It was a big and heavy hand, but it was extremely light when it laid on her shoulder, like a bird on a branch. Stunned by that contact, The girl lifted her face, and then was gaped: another smile had welcomed her, so radiant and encouraging it warmed her heart and her soul like a sunray.

“What we do often isn’t dictated by reason, and it merely served to fill in that web called destiny… only when the work is done can we truly judge where our actions have brought us. Before then, judging and accusing ourselves is pointless.”

He was as tall as a mountain, so big he loomed over the two women with his towering height, his large cape, and that crown sitting on his head. Only his smile shone, along with his light eyes and his hair like golden thread.

Heartened, Charlotte nodded, making peace with herself. She wouldn’t forget Quetzalcoatl’s death, but only at the end of that battle for the survival of mankind would she properly mourn him.

“Oh! Come here, you two!”

Boudicca puffed up seeing her happy again, so she held both her and the blond man in a big hug. The man was forced to bend down and writhed under the woman’s herculean strength.

As the three of them laughed, someone was peeking through a door, spying them. Confused eyes, that quickly gave up to the exasperation of that scene and went back to minding their own business. There, in a private room with tomes and manuscripts that completely covered the walls, and where a desk filled with scrolls and inkwells almost took up the whole space, he felt more at ease.

He dropped deadweight on his seat, whining in pain. They’d called him for the next match, and he had to go back to work and write down his last inspiration before the moment came.

“Sixth bout… sixth bout…” But he didn’t manage to concentrate, he was eroded by rage. Then, leaning backwards and cussing at the top of his lungs, Dante Alighieri yelled: “Why the fuck is it not the third?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Didn't this battle end as you expected? I would have bet! After all, I always said it would be a battle out of the ordinary.   
> I'll wait for you at the next fight, with a certain fighter... well, I guess some of you have already figured out who he is.  
> Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	21. Have You Seen The Yellow Sign?

**Chapter 21: Have You Seen The Yellow Sign?**

It wouldn’t be long until the sixth match would start, but there was someone who wasn’t interested at all in being on time. It was Phobetor, the god of nightmares, who’d run into an urgent problem just moments earlier.

“Aaah… a building as big as the universe, but finding a bathroom is impossible every time” he sighed, both relieved and outraged, as he closed the door behind him. That being said, he prepared himself to join his companions, when he felt a presence getting closer from the end of the hallway.

It proceeded with a slow pace, but the rustle her movement produced was deafening. He noticed too late: it wasn’t a single individual walking, but a whole army. Dressed in yellow ochre, that procession of yellow cloths was about to run him over like a soft and dry wave.

Phobetor trembled, staring in the face of horror.

A moment later someone walked past him, surpassing him without saying anything and going on as if nothing happened. The god of nightmares came back to his senses, but his heart wouldn’t stop pounding. It’d even skipped some beats.

-Is… he…?-

The battlefield was still and silent, however, the eyes of innumerable spectators were focused on it in the usual wait, tingling, impatient for what was about to come.

Particularly the gods, grateful for the advantage they’d gained from their two consecutive victories, their very first advantage: the tête-à-tête was over, just like mankind’s hope after their last defeat. They were so ashamed they couldn’t even bring themselves to look at a certain tribune: the one where mankind’s remaining vanguards sat.

There, Charlotte Corday, her eyes dull because of that mortifying consideration, couldn’t even be cheered up by Boudicca’s encouragement. The warrior queen was starting to feel disheartened too, as she thought the girl’s heart had been permanently scarred by her second murder: she’d killed a person she loved.

Nonetheless, she tried to talk to her and raise her spirits, but this time another voice intervened: “The sirs are waiting, and it is a stage of feast and hope.”

Boudicca turned around with a confused as well as wary expression: what hope was he talking about?

The one who spoke was a figure in the shadows, leaning against a wall, his arms crossed. His back clothing allowed him to be one with the darkness, along with the large black hat lowered on his invisible face.

“What, my queen? Haven’t you noticed? The storyteller will soon come to brighten our days.” He slightly lifted his head, letting the hat uncover part of his face: actually, his face was nonexistent, because the only thing that appeared was a mask’s static smile, with a black goatee and a mustache.

“Don’t call me my queen” she answered annoyedly, glancing at her interlocutor as if she’d told him at least a hundred times. And that actually was the case, seeing as that Guy Fawkes wouldn’t stop introducing his speeches in that weird way.

“Furthermore… I don’t think he’s exactly a storyteller.”

“Yes! He’s a poet!” Charlotte chimed in, her eyes bright, maybe with admiration.

The masked man laughed benevolently: “Sure, sure! I know it well, don’t take me for a fool: he was famous even when I was alive. It’s just that… he’s a lot different from what I’d imagined.”

The microphones were turned on, and they filled the already tense air with a hum.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We’re at the sixth bout, which means half of the selected fighters for this tournament have already tread on the battlefield, struggling and dying for their goal! Let’s take the ground once again wiiith… the gods’ side!”

The announcers kept the audience on their toes, until every light in creation suddenly turned off.

Everything plummeted into the darkest dark, and no senses were useful to find your way around: it was the absence of any grip, any hope, any salvation. It seemed a vortex the audience had already plunged in, caught by something inevitable.

“A warning to anyone who has birthed, or will ever birth, an unmotivated thought, a distant reality, a sublime dream…”

First a rustle, like clothes against the floor, then a haunting buzz resembling the hectic flight of a thousand insects. It exploded in the dark, when everyone least expected it, sudden and violent: a musical crescendo, terrible and scary.

“He owns everything. And he will have your minds, the moment when you turn to him… to his court!”

As bright as a lighthouse, the yellow of a torn cloth started to shine in the dark. It covered a shape, humanoid but unnatural at the same time: it had no face, just tentacles that crawled on the ground, long and slimy.

“The Yellow King, from a forgotten time, from the ruined city of Carcossa, from the shores of the river Hali! In his eldritch horror…”

When the lights were turned back on, and the stars went back to shining in the sky, that horror wasn’t any less scary. His face was still covered by the cloth, and that sound was ever lingering in the spectators’ minds.

“... Hastur!!”

And that creature looked around, noticing how a heavy silence had plunged onto the spectators, petrifying them on their seats. He emitted a feeble hiss from the cavity of his hood: “Have you seen it? The yellow sign?”

Up above, some humans started chattering, wondering what he was saying.

“So…” One of them just said, and he didn’t even seem to be referring to that particular question. He’d simply come to understand something, and against any judgement, moved by instinct, he felt compelled to speak.

“So he… really exists.” His head was oval, his forehead wide and his eyes sunken, in an expression of anguish and perdition. Howard Philips Lovecraft, a writer who’d been able to gaze into terror and man’s deepest and darkest fears, watched the scene as if it was an omen for destruction.

“And what would that thing be?” Ammit asked himself meanwhile, confusedly eyeing the gods’ vanguard. “I really can’t tell if he’s good or evil.”

Phobetor was on his side, and when he saw his entrance, he’d started trembling and profusely sweating just like earlier.

“It can’t be” He feebly muttered to himself. “A nightmare like this can’t exist. That’s… absurd!”

That yellow colour was a stain spilled out of man’s reason, and not even the god of nightmares could fathom the shades of fear it could provoke.

“While, on the humans’ siiiide…”

The attention was drawn to the opposite door to the one from which Hastur had entered, and all of mankind’s hope was projected there.

“A man… an artist… a legend… a history!”

A hollow fog came out of the portal, covering the ground like a blanket. First a shadow, then a body, something gigantic was floating, suspended in the air. It was a black wooden boat, sailing through the opaque mist. Everyone gasped, blown away by that ghastly vessel: wisps burnt on its sides, while a sign on the foredeck indicated a single direction: _“The Town of Woe”,_ in dark capital letters.

“A life spent documenting the deeds of the world, writing a compendium of harsh critique. He, elevated to Supreme Poet… will he be able to subdue the gods, with the pen that is mightier than the sword?!” 

“ _Per me si va ne la città dolente... per me si va ne l'etterno dolore..._ _(Through me one goes into the town of woe… through me one goes into eternal pain…)_ ” The people started chanting, a climax of tension in their voices. The boat proceeded slowly but inevitably, almost as if it was waiting for them to finish, with a triumphant:

_ “Lasciate ogne speranza, o voi ch'intrate!  _ _(All hope abandon, ye that enter here!)”_

And suddenly, a scream: “ _E si va a letto *****! _ I’m fed the fuck up with this morgue!”

Someone jumped off of Charon’s boat, landing wide-stance in the arena. He cautiously raised his head, looking around. Then, taking a deep breath, he let out another bloody scream:

“What about my name?! Won’t you say it?!”

The announcers, who’d stepped back in shock, looked at each other hesitatingly: “Uhm… Dante Alighieri!”

But everyone was way too confused to cheer.

The man who was now in the middle of the battlefield looked a bit over the hill, his hair was brown but slightly grizzled on the top. His face was sharp, his mouth thin and his nose long, above which two grim eyes glanced at the audience.

“Did y’all hear me right?! Daaante… Alighieeeri!” He said, waving his arms and making the large red coat he was wearing twirl, revealing a white shirt and black leather pants. Then he lifted a laurel crown, laying it on his head. “I have this! I’m the Supreme Poet, the Vate!” He started searching for something, or better, someone, on mankind’s grandstands.

“Now, please… could you kindly - look, I’m sorry, huh - find a certain… Albertino Mussato?!” He highlighted that name with an exceeding dose of sourness. “What does he do? Who is he?”

Even the humans asked themselves similar questions, as they looked left and right to satisfy the request of that restless man.

“Always the same old story” a woman sighed, resignedly. She was Gemma Donati, Dante Alighieri’s wife.

When they asked her for an explanation, she answered, as she cradled three babies in her arms, as restless and lively as their father: “It’s that guy over there.” And she pointed at a man, sat aside, who was doing his best to hide from everything and everyone, his face red with embarrassment.

“Maybe you’ll remember him for his tragedy _Eceneris_.” But everyone shook their heads.

“Just as I thought” she admitted. “When my husband was alive, Albertino Mussato was the Supreme Poet… and Dante never came to terms with it. But now he’s found out that he’s been crowned after his death… ahiahiahi, why us?”

And they all went back to staring at the man who was boasting left and right, nonstop.

“Did you hear it, _Albertì_?! No one knows you anymore!” And he burst out in glorious laughter, lifting three manuscripts: “These, instead… these, _mammamia bella_ , will be forever taught in schools, and universities, and everyone will have a copy in their houses even if they’ve never read them!”

Everyone recognized the three tomes that constituted the _Divine Comedy_ , the poet’s most famous work.

Adramelech and St, Peter, meanwhile, didn’t know how to take back control of the situation.

“Huh, so, now that the Supreme Poet-”

“Yup, that's right, I’m the Supreme Poet” Dante responded, to everyone’s desperation.

“But at the time? Fuck no, and pardon me for the _vulgar_! They said I was corrupt, a briber… and now?! I’m the symbol of Italy! Oh- wait no, maybe this is normal.” He shushed for a bunch of seconds, and then went back to laughing hysterically.

“What now? Don’t tell me, I’m even on coins! They probably even portray shit, or horrors like this one!”

It took everyone a minute to realize Dante had actually pointed at Hastur.

The god, hearing himself being called that way for no apparent reason, was shaken.

“This one was gratuitous…” someone whispered on the gods’ tribunes.

A man grumbled angrily: “And I’m remembered more because of this guy, than for my _Aeneid_?” It was the Roman poet Virgil.

“ _Ma ‘sto grullo! Che più grullo non se pò_! (This idiot! The most idiot of idiots!)” another man burst out laughing, more fiery-looking and dressed like a city nobleman. His name was Filippo Argenti, and he mocked the poet while all the girls that cuddled him, huddled around him, laughed simultaneously.

It seemed as if there was no more respect or esteem for mankind’s vanguard anymore.

“ _We_ are fed up, now! Enough! The Ragnarok begins now!!” The announcers finally belted out, furiously.

Incredibly enough, the sixth bout had really started.

However, one of the fighters didn’t look calm and concentrated like the ones before him:

“Sixth?! Shit! Why not third? Or ninth, because nine is three times three!” Dante, with his hands in his hair to the point where he was ruining his laurel crown, muttered to himself, walking in circles. His walk stopped when he ran into a towering figure. He bumped into it, falling backwards, and from that position, he could clearly see Hastur.

The Yellow King, silent above him, waited patently: “And you should be mankind’s hope? They lied to me…”

“What?! I can’t hear you, speak louder!” Carelessly, the poet got so close to him he almost ended up with his ear in Hastur’s cape.

A wince came from the grandstands.

Hastur was still unmoving, not reacting to that outrage.

“Have you seen it? The yellow sign?” he repeated his iconic phrase, to which he was answered a harsh: “No.”

It was impossible to decipher the Yellow King’s emotions, however the only thing he decided to show was that he sure hadn’t lost the will to crush his opponent: some of his gloomy tentacles took off the ground, looking like drooping limbs drenched with dark saliva.

Although they looked harmless in their slow and swollen appearance, they bolted forward in the blink of an eye. Dante didn’t even have the time to move, because those black limbs had got as hard and sharp as spears, planting themselves in the ground around him. They’d barely grazed him, but that light contact managed to tear his skin in various spots, letting out blood sprays.

The poet hesitated, then the pain took over and ripped a visceral, horrified scream from his throat.

“What… the fuck are you?!” He backed off, tripping and crawling back on his hands. He didn’t take his eyes off the creature, it was a life-or-death matter, so he observed as he retrieved his tentacles with unnerving calm.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Hastur landed the first hit!” 

On mankind’s grandstands, Charlotte worriedly turned to her companions: “B-But are we sure _Monsieur_ Dante can fight?” Boudicca wouldn’t have wanted to be so negative, but she seriously shook her head.

“He’s in danger of being swallowed by Hastur’s horror story” Guy Fawkes harshly commented, with his usual playful tone.

Meanwhile, a really pathetic scene was unravelling before everyone’s eyes, able to make humans despair and gods laugh coarsely: Dante, prey to panic, was running like hell, cussing profusely.

But, everywhere he turned, he ended up always finding the same thing in front of him, that’s to say the sideral void under his opponent’s hood. It was everywhere, he couldn’t escape.

“Go away!” he yelled out at one point, not running away instantly when he found himself in front of his opponent.

Hastur was surprised and, alert, he watched the man’s hand draw an arc in the air towards his face. That slap dissolved him as if he was smoke, leaving absolute nothingness in front of Dante.

“Ah…” he sighed, relieved, turning around. Hastur was there once again, bent forward to bring his face inches away from the other’s.

The poet tried to scream, but it was too late: a black tentacle wrapped around his jaw, taping his mouth shut.

“I expected much from you.” Hastur’s deep voice filled up his ears, drowning out the spectator’s roars. “I was looking for mankind’s hope… but you can be its shame, at best. Do not misunderstand me: you’re a poet, and this does you credit. But an artist has much more grit than you. Where’s the fieriness, the search for the sublime, the pain, the achievement of ecstasy in carrying out a superhuman task? You have a very limited vision, of the world, life, yourself, and others.”

As he talked, other tentacles had horribly made their way into the man’s mouth, who could barely drool a reddish foam. Those small tendrils started to dig into his body, tracing his skin like a path. His eyes had lost every glimpse of light by then.

“I’m asking you one last time… have you seen it? The yellow sign?”

And, in those irises, a mysterious and arcane symbol appeared, replacing every trace of hope and sanity. Dante’s body was let go, and it fell dead-weight on the ground.

Mankind flinched, and even the gods hesitated: such a brutal sight would have caught anyone off guard. They all expected a duel, but they’d witnessed a cold-blooded murder.

Slowly, but louder and louder, like the buzz of a million insects, whispers of fear and worship spread on the grandstands.

_ And you too will talk about the Yellow Sign, the Yellow King, and Hastur. Don’t you already feel the urge to do it? _

_ Do it! Write about him, draw him, let his mysterious plots inspire you for the creation of a work of art that, by the way, you won’t complete. _

_ Because no one must know what all of this is, and what it’s not. It’s a secret between you and me, my dear readers. _

“NO!!”

A scream coming from a soul that vibrated more than all of that folly and horror shattered the banal end everyone had so easily accepted.

Hastur, flabbergasted, wavered. Before turning around, he felt a burning heat rip through the yellow cape he wore.

“F-Fire?!” the presenters screeched. They were talking about a dancing presence in the arena, the same colour of flames, that twitched and grew more and more intense before everyone’s astonished eyes.

But, despite the heat it emitted, it wasn’t fire: it was an aura, smokey and untouchable, that wrapped a body about to get up from the ground.

“What the hell is happening?!” Boudicca yelled, leaning over the balcony. “Wasn’t he… dead?!”

“Not at all” the mysterious god surprisingly answered. The treacherous being had appeared among them just to show them how delighted his grin was.

“He’d just fainted.”

And the body that got up, surrounded by that glowing heat, showed an equally delighted smile. However, his satisfaction came from the immense bloodthirst his flaming eyes conveyed, which he wanted to soothe.

The Earth cracked, and from the depths of a pitless hole, a sick creation came out: made of gigantic bones and culminating with a skull from whose mouth a large blade came out, that scythe was wielded by its owner with no qualms.

Dante, his face now crossed by scales of lavic stone, stuck his tongue out to mock his opponent even more: “ **Hell Form** ” he hissed in between laughter.

“And now let’s see… what kind of story we can take out of this match!”

_*****_ It’s a nonsense joke in italian. It literally means “are we going to sleep?” (it’s a rethorical question). When someone says _“e si va a letto?”_ you must answer _“poliziaaa!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! The sixth bout has begun, with two "literary" characters: the Supreme Poet, Dante Alighieri, and the Unspeakable Madness Embodied in Literature, The Yellow King Hastur.   
> Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	22. Tragicomedy

**Chapter 22: Tragicomedy**

The human being that now ruled over the battlefield didn’t have anything to do with the previous one. The hood of his cape was slightly lowered on his face, casting a shadow that didn’t dampen the brightness in his eyes, which shone even in the dark.

“What happened to Dante?!” the poet’s wife was the first to scream, promptly followed by a confused chatter on mankind’s side.

Another flabbergasted voice was that of the nobleman Filippo Argenti, who almost fell off his seat as he leaned forward: “And where… and where…” he stuttered, hoarsely “Where does that come from?!”

Judging from his reaction, it seemed he’d never seen something similar in his life, but a glimpse of anguish and fear in his eyes portended something way darker.

_ **Second half of the XII century, circa.** _

_ No one in Florence would have expected to gather up in front of those two famous houses to witness such a quarrel. Sure, everyone knew there was bad blood between the Alighieri’ and the Adimari families, but the most arrogant member of the second house had decided to pick on the most unsuspected of all: Dante Alighieri. _

_ The young writer had been grabbed by the collar and mounted on the wall by Filippo’s big, gloved hands. The man was called Argenti, meaning silver, because he dressed up in that shiny way, along with his horse, and in silver Dante saw the reflection of his own face, scared and drenched with sweat. _

_ “What are you doing, huh? What are you doing, Dante?!” Filippo screamed, shaking him against the wall like a plushie. “Do you want to ruin me?! Humiliate me?!” _

_ He was furious, and yelling like a madman he didn’t even give the other the time to breathe. The people around were afraid the argument would wind up in the worst way possible, but they couldn't intervene anyway: they all feared Filippo Argenti, and suffering his wrath for prying into his business wouldn’t have been any good to anyone. _

_ “I-I… did what I had to do” Dante answered, bravely and unexpectedly. Actually, the fear that had taken over him and was making him tremble like a leaf would have been fit for anyone other than a brave man, but he’d found the strength to speak up anyway. _

_ The other didn’t react well, and seemed to sink even deeper in his already bad mood: “What did you say, you shitty coward?! I told you to go to the judge to make him drop the charges against me, but all you did was add to them! Do you realize how much I’ll have to pay, with such a fine?!”  _

_ Dante’s dry lips twitched for a second, locked. Then they were moistened by a tongue flick, and bent in a forced smile: the poet was doing his best to act careless, even raising his chin to look down on Filippo.  _

_ “It’s not my fault if you’re just a yokel, a bully, who often picks on innocent people, and who has fun only with violence.” _

_ At that moment, inside those blunt eyes, Filippo had caught a glimpse of a feeble but dangerous light. _

_ With a slap in the face he’d tried to wipe away that look that bugged him that much, but even after having thrown the poet on the ground, he still gave him that threatening look. _

_ All those who didn’t notice what had just happened were left wondering why the two of them never argued again, and why Filippo Argenti refused to get close to Dante ever since. _

“Ladies and gentlemen, we just witnessed an actual transformation!” Adramelech screamed, and then St.Peter “That’s something that would normally be impossible for a human! Is it some secret power?”

And the mysterious god, who was looking at his plans perfectly unwinding before him, grinned evilly as an answer. Boudicca’s, Charlotte’s and Guy Fawkes’s eyes were on him.

“The Sephirot Binah… Knowledge.” His pupil sprinkled fire in excitement, completely enchanted by that sight that had made everyone go mute, even the gods.

“Now he has a weapon to wound gods, too. Let’s see how you’ll do…”

Meanwhile Dante, in his newly-announced Hell Form, surprisedly tilted his head when he noticed his opponent hadn’t budged. He leaned the scythe against his shoulder.

“Whassup, you don’t want to bring it on? What should you be anyway: a character from a book, or a saga? Mah, maybe…” He clutched the handle to his weapon, and in that torsion his arms puffed up like balloons of muscles and veins: “... you’re… a half-as _saga_!”

And he threw himself for a slash, ignoring the distance that separated him from his foe. That was why, surprisingly, the handle stretched fluidly and sinuously, like a whip.

Not being able to predict it in any way, Hastur was stabbed in his chest by the blade, writhing in the impact.

“Hit!” the announcers flinched, along with the gods, scared.

However, they soon discovered none of that was ever possible. The Yellow King’s existence itself was a heap of incomprehensible madness, and the fabric of the universe bent to accommodate that ineffable nature of his. 

From the tatters of the torn cape, where the wound was, a crawling figure came out: another Hastur, identical to the puppet he’d left behind, like cicadas do with their old skin, started climbing on Dante’s weapon to reach him at bullet speed.

That way the poet, although he’d begun to draw back the whip, wouldn’t have been able to hit him with that same weapon. This, along with the initial shock of not having caused any damage although he’d hit him fully, would have shaken any common man to the point of petrifying him with fear.

And probably that’s exactly how the Dante from before would’ve ended up, but his new form reacted to that unthinkable situation with a shark-like smirk: “Finally, you’re bringing it on!”

A hand broke apart from the handle to form a compact and solid punch, like a meteor packed with vascular cracks ready to impact on the incoming opponent.

“You think you caught me unprepared?”

He’d already pictured victory in front of him, so he didn’t even see Hastur react promptly to his action. The Yellow King, in fact, had had all the necessary time to see his attack and prepare a counterattack: lifting a flap of his cape, a pitch-black arm came out, with a much faster punch than the poet’s. He anticipated him, landing a clean hit on his face.

“At the exchange of blows… Hastur wins!”

They all saw Dante’s face, first bent in a triumphant smile, then deformed by the hit that struck it.

Then, the two opponents were flung backwards, wedging themselves in opposite walls.

The gods’ cheers died at birth, as they were left as confused and astonished as the humans. They didn’t manage to understand what had happened, the same way as Adramelech and St. Peter, who now gasped on their microphones.

“What…?! L-Let’s rewatch the scene!” And they rewinded the tape in slow motion.

Undoubtedly, Hastur’s punch had landed on the target before Dante’s, which hadn’t even managed to graze him. However, at the same time, they’d both been thrown in opposite directions.

Smiling again, the mysterious god rubbed his fingertips in front of his face, his elbows propped on the balustrade. 

In the general confusion, Hastur was the first to free himself from the wall he’d been embedded in. Part of his cape had been destroyed, but it quickly started regenerating thanks to a black mucosa.

He was perfectly fine, nonetheless he couldn’t come to realize what exactly had hit his face. He looked straight in front of him, and on the opposite side of the arena he saw Dante, standing on his feet. The man smiled just like earlier, unscathed.

“And you call that a punch? I’m sure that skanky mother of yours would’ve thrown it harder!” Bursting into goliardic laughter, he leapt in the air to catch his opponent off guard with an air assault. His weapon whipped the air, plummeting downwards like a lightning bolt.

However, for the second time in a row, Hastur was able to anticipate him: by then he’d memorized his opponent’s weapon’s maximum range, and using the length of his tentacles, he managed to break off the attack by flinging them upwards. The black tendrils multiplied mid-air, merging into a horrifyingly sharp stub, which pierced through Dante’s chest.

The man, blocked mid-air, coughed up blood, petrified with an astonished expression as his eyes became white and milky.

And Hastur became just as bloody and surprised when a giant gash opened at the centre of his body. Slimy mush spurted out instead of blood, staining the ground.

“Hastur… was hit once again! What’s happening?!” the divine crowd yelled, in total panic.

They were all so caught up by the god’s unexplainable would, they all forgot about Dante.

Taking advantage of the fuss, the poet pointed his blade towards the tentacles that had stabbed through him. With a couple of perfect slashes, he broke free from them, ignoring the pain. Now that he wasn’t suspended in the air anymore, he started falling onto his foe.

The Yellow King, who was busy hurriedly regenerating his wound, looked up and saw a glimpse of the hit that was about to land on his head. He brought his tentacles up in defense, but they were chopped off. 

As that obstacle had been eliminated, the contestants’ eyes met.

Dante grinned malevolently, corroded by unending bloodthirst and fierceness, while Hastur didn’t let any emotion seep through that dark hood of his.

And his plans were as unreadable as his face: unsuspectedly, the tentacles he’d lost started writhing and twitching on the ground, as if they had a life of their own. On the chopped-off ends, ravenous mouths full of sharp teeth grew, which instantly rushed on their prey’s flesh.

The Supreme Poet, caught off guard, was bitten in various spots. His flesh was torn by those maws, and some of them snapped on his armed arm, making it impossible for him to swing another hit. Muscles, tendons, veins, and bones: his whole body became the meal for those hideous creatures.

However, now it was his face that was apathetic.

Hastur noticed, and he couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening. Then pain overwhelmed him, excruciating and sudden, just like the two previous times. He lowered his gaze, recognizing that his body had been torn in various spots, as if something invisible was tearing him to pieces.

Dante’s voice reached him, mocking and malicious: “Have a good meal, cunt.”

The Yellow King, maybe more out of some sort of survival instinct than realization of what was going on, made the mouths that were devouring Dante vanish. The man’s body was revealed: the flesh had almost completely been eaten off, showing some bare bones or pieces of organs with bite marks on them. Nonetheless, he smiled as if nothing was wrong.

Under everyone’s eyes, now naked, his body started healing. Tissues and fibers grew again, flawlessly repairing the damage, and it was fascinating seeing how perfect it was.

“Regeneration?!” the humans flinched, remembering something from two bouts ago. “He has the same power as Prometheus!”

They didn’t focus on another crucial detail: at the same time as Dante’s regeneration, Hastur was healing himself too, without his body being furtherly damaged.

The contestants looked at each other in a creepy calmness that could only predict an incoming storm.

“You…” Hastur’s feeble voice went back to echoing in the arena after a long time. “You can reflect on my body the same wounds I inflict on yours.”

His assessment was clear and blunt, so clear and blunt that the poet burst out laughing. He laughed his lungs out, puffing his chest and arching his back with his fists propped up on his hips.

Then he straightened his back to look directly at his opponent and his eyes grew serious.

“Exactly, you piece of shit: my **Retaliation** allows me to return to you every wound you give me! And you know what the best part is? It’s that since my body and your body are one and the same, I can use your regeneration to nullify every deadly damage!”

Apparently apathetic to that speech, Hastur spoke thoughtfully: “Oh, yes. But you forgot something, which I understood on the other hand…” 

In the darkness his face consisted of, two embers lit up, shiny like lighthouses in the night: terrifying eyes he pierced through the man with, like a death sentence. His voice this time rumbled like the echo in a cave.

“You can’t instantly reflect the damage I inflict on you. That means, if I destroy every single cell of yours, I won’t have to put up with your obnoxious smile anymore!” 

At that point, finally, Dante’s smirk wavered, crumbling under that disturbing irregularity. He felt as if his body was a house of cards being threatened by the impetuous wind.

The two of them moved simultaneously.

Hastur gathered as many tentacles as he could in front of him, hurling them forward in a wave-like move. First slow, then quicker, it was a crazy dance, unpredictable and pressing.

The Vate, however, had already stretched his whip for a frontal assault, which was enough to tear through his wave and reach his target. The yellow one suddenly felt the scythe blade against his throat, as the whole handle wrapped around his body.

A minimal flick of Dante’s wrist would be enough to decapitate him, and that was exactly what he intended on doing, but he underestimated his opponent: he couldn’t imagine that Hastur’s attack hadn’t stopped at all, and he was overcome by tentacles. Sunken, dragged down, drowned, he disappeared in a black wave.

Anxiously waiting, the humans let out a terrified scream. And then a second later a relieved one, when the poet’s head came back up, safe and sound.

“Oh my God! What’s happening?!” were his first words, surprising everyone, even Hastur.

The man seemed to have lost his heat all at once, and now he looked around in a panic, realizing what situation he was in. In between pleas and imploring glances, he spotted the handle of his scythe peeping from the sea of tentacles; it hadn’t sunk yet.

Before it got lost forever, he managed to grab it with a desperate effort. Fear and doubt vanished from his eyes.

The Yellow King tensed up like a violin string, but too late: because of Retaliation, he’d immobilized himself with his own move. Not even a second later, the whip tightened around his body and slashed his throat. The weapon hovered in the air like a rampant snake, making chunks of mush rain on the battlefield.

Hastur’s tentacles, now harmless, were set aside by Dante as he got back up. At the same time, the Yellow King’s head fell to the ground, rolling away.

“You slimy… bastard.” The infernal poet spit on the ground, growling, contemptuous of the risk he’d been at.

Or maybe his hate was meant for his foe’s decapitated corpse. He looked where the head should have been, but at its place he found just a piece of cloth, slumped over the ground.

“Ladies and gentlemen! In spite of this umpteenth exchange of blows… The bout doesn’t seem to be over at all!” even St. Peter and Adramelech found it hard to speak, as they, too, had been invested by the sudden, oppressive aura that now blanketed the whole colosseum.

No one had ever seen so many gods tremble in fear, while the humans, already used to that kind of crushing terror, immediately understood they were standing before the so-called divine wrath.

The liturgical sequence _“Dies irae”_ would have been perfectly fit for the occasion, as the spectators of each side seemed to be wiped away by a storm of obscurity and darkness that threatened to eclipse the sun for the second time.

That whole catastrophe had a very precise epicenter: Hastur’s yellow cape, that now flew in the wind like a flag. Finally, that same piece of cloth floated in the air, revealing the god’s presence.

“You made the worst mistake of your life… but rejoice… for it will be the last: when I’ll have crawled under your skin, in the deepest of your thoughts, you won’t have free will anymore and you’ll be condemned to an endless nightmare of torture!”

A grotesque figure got up from the ground, convulsively and imprecisely, as if it were a skeleton that had just learnt how to walk on its own. His flesh was scaled, yellowish stone, marked by incisions, runes, fur, and other scales that bled black mush. From his swollen and arched back, a cloak of black tentacles flowed like a waterfall. His limbs were thin, withered, and ended terminated in long, sharp claws.

But what was truly nightmarish and haunted the audience’s mind with horrendous visions, was Hastur’s supposedly true face. Once again it was hidden, this time by a yellow mask that mimicked the shape of a crown, which actually looked more like a crest with a thousand black eyes on top. That trypophobic nightmare of bloodshot globes darted its eyes everywhere, although the creature’s body had already started to move, slowly but inevitably crawling towards its target.

Even Dante was anchored to the ground by the oppressive presence of his opponent’s true form, and even his reason projected a representative image of what he had in front of him: it was as if the most ferocious and dark beasts had merged into a single, ravenous wave directed at him, coming from the wide-open gates of hell.

And so, caught by fear and surprise, he couldn’t not faint.

His lifeless body dropped on the ground, breaking the tension of the moment with quite the anticlimatic move. But, as everyone had understood by then, that wasn’t the end of the match, just the beginning of another phase.

“ **Purgatory Form!** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Dante and Hastur ... by now you should have understood the common thread that links them, just as you should have understood that in terms of strength they are almost equal. This had not happened since the fourth fight.  
> Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	23. I Still Try To Find My Place

**Chapter 23: I Still Try To Find My Place**

The mysterious god was witness to all of that, and the smile had disappeared from his lips. He thought back to when, not long ago, he’d evoked Dante Alighieri to include him in his host of fighters.

_ Unlike other characters, who were more than enthusiastic about taking part in the tournament, such as Ramses, who’d immediately started courting Boudicca and Charlotte, or Masutatsu and Guy Fawkes, that grey man did two simple things: he looked around and then, with the same sad eyes, he walked away. _

_ He had no destination, for that was the afterlife’s terminal, but he’d preferred to hide away from everyone’s eyes. _

_ Immediately the mysterious god had chased him, shocked: “B-But… why are you going away? I’m giving you the opportunity to save mankind!”  _

_ Dante had surprisingly stopped. Just to slightly turn around and give him a lonely and melancholic glance, like a cold, rainy afternoon. Grey, stormy clouds slid behind his eyes. _

_ “Is this the place beyond life?” He’d asked, to which the other responded affirmatively. “Then there’s nothing for me to see, here.” _

_ “What?” The chase went on for a while. “Don’t you care about preventing the human race from being wiped off by the gods?” _

_ “Some time ago… I would have told you no. Me? Save mankind and go against the gods’ will? No, I’d never dared to utter such a blasphemy… but now that I can see what the afterlife really looks like, I realize how many things I was wrong about. Just and corrupt people, heroes and villains, all gathered in the same place, with equal possibilities… no infidels, no punishments, no eternal salvation.” He’d squinted those sad eyes of his: “We’re all the same under a sky that doesn’t accept us.” _

_ “That’s exactly why you should fight against such brutality, now that you have the chance!” _

_ “But… why? Can’t this world simply… end?” _

But after that… something had happened.

The mysterious god was still lost in that memory, when the immediateness of an incredible scene caught his attention.

Dante’s second transformation was accompanied by a feeble light that unexplainably seemed to have absorbed all the surrounding colours to make the atmosphere gaunter and greyer. It was as if a slow ballad resonated in the dead air, in time with the dance of the poet’s cloak, now a pale red. The lavic scales on his skin had disappeared, making way for an ashy skin, crossed by cracks, like a shattered porcelain vase.

Even the weapon he wielded changed: it wasn’t a whip anymore, instead it was a long and rigid handle that terminated with two curved blades that closed together like a circle, resembling a crescent moon.

“ **Purgatory Form**!” That was what he’d exclaimed.

Hastur wasn’t impressed, instead he kept on emitting disgusting rattles, crawling left and right. Both of them, in their reflexive calm, were preparing to attack.

“The tension can be cut with a knife, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcers screamed. “Both fighters revealed themselves in a new form! What new surprises do they have for us?!”

And in an instant, it all resumed:

Hastur widened all his eyes, pointing them on Dante. It was as if a grin had opened under his mask, then he disappeared.

He materialized behind the poet, whispering forbidden and arcane words in his ear; he jumped in surprise to get away from him.

“He runs away! Has Dante stopped counterattacking?!”

But as soon as the man’s foot touched the ground, that creepy figure appeared over his head, whirling his tentacles in the air. He managed to dodge them, observing them as they crashed on the ground he was standing on seconds before. The soil had been crushed, forming a deep chasm, like the footprint of an animal: Hastur’s attacks had become heavier, but not less quick and deadly.

Every time Dante moved, the Yellow King disappeared from his field of view to then pop back up in his blind spots. The time span between his appearance and the attack that followed was always the same, however the poet couldn’t always dodge at the same speed and immediately go back to moving. Seeing himself be grazed by those destructive tendrils, and hearing the air pressure explode in booms mere millimeters away from his eardrums, he felt as if he was in the eye of an evermoving typhoon.

If he went out of his infinitesimal safe space, he’d be overwhelmed by those dark waves.

“Dante…” his wife Gemma apprehensively murmured, clasping her hands together in prayer. All of humanity twitched, worrying that, if those assaults ever landed on their target, all hope would be lost.

Unluckily, when everyone least expected it, it happened: a tentacle finally managed to graze Dante. It was a light hit, barely hinted, that touched a millimeter of the man’s shoulder. However, a second later, from that point a blood spray burst out, staining Hastur’s mask.

The Yellow King’s eyes reflected that crimson colour, and they were filled with tears of emotion in the euphoria of that most pleasant sight.

Only a whisper: “I… hit… you… how… lovely…”

The poet went pale under that monstrous gaze, and he had to fight against a visceral fear in his guts to move even faster. He brought his body to the limit, keeping up with quicker and more frantic attacks. 

“Have you seen it?” the gods said, meanwhile. A collective grin spread among them, and mankind perceived it as a threat. And the reason for that joy was something it was impossible not to worry about: Hastur hadn’t been hurt.

Although he’d landed a hit, unlike the previous times it hadn’t been reflected on him and the god was able to keep on attacking with even more grit.

And now, despite the poet’s superhuman effort, those attacks had started landing more and more frequently, raising blood spatters in the air. More blood drops on Hastur’s mask, who had now become a nightmare of chaos and madness.

His movements were like a storm of darkness, something that had never been seen in nature and that could never exist.

“It’s… over…” was all that Hastur’s mouth uttered, when he lunged his tentacles, merged together to form a black spear, towards his target.

And those tentacles, just as they’d been hurled, were caught and blocked in Dante’s weapon.

“Over?” the poet’s voice repeated. It sure wasn’t the voice of someone that had given up, instead it came from a mouth bent into a blunt smile.

In front of that sneer, Hastur and all the gods flinched with shock.

Dante’s weapon, which did not casually resemble a medieval European weapon used to catch fleeing criminals from a distance, had closed its blades around Hastur’s tentacles, blocking their ends about an inch away from Dante’s face. When he moved it, he revealed his face to his foe, fazing him with a sharp glance: “This is just the beginning… of your end!”

As the god noticed he’d fallen into the trap of his own greediness, the poet had already moved, quicker than he’d ever done before: after turning around, he lifted his weapon just to then crash it against the ground, dragging Hastur along with it.

Emitting a sloppy snap, like an octopus when it’s crushed against a cliff, the Yellow King’s armour cracked, breaking in various spots. The commotion didn’t let him feel the pain, but when he tried to get back up he felt the world spin way too quickly around him.

Taking advantage of that hesitation, Dante’s weapon freed him from its grip, only to land a hit with the handle on his throat. While Hastur fell laying on the ground, he saw the poet looming over him, the sun behind him.

“Get up” he ordered, with fierce calmness.

And the god actually tried to get back on his feet, but when he put his hand on the ground for balance, it was shoved away with the tip of the enemy’s weapon. As he fell once again, Dante intercepted him with a flurry of hits, so fast they could barely be seen by the naked human eye.

This time it was Hastur’s face that was crushed against the ground, and from that perspective he actually felt the world weigh down on him, stomping on him in an avalanche of disgrace.

“Hastur stays down!” the human crowd yelled, as the presenters announced: “The Yellow King has been knocked down and doesn’t seem to be able to get back up! Astonishing! Is it already the moment to ring the bell for the end of the match?”

And Hastur actually stayed down, crushed by the aura that man in front of him emanated.

In that unnerving silence, in his unmoving and peaceful rest, he imagined a myriad of scenarios: how to get back up, go back to attacking, turn the situation around. Those infinite possibilities were annihilated in his mind before he could ever act on them.

All that because of Dante, who, simply nailing him to the ground with his eyes, managed to get into his head the notion that, whatever move he’d try, he would cut it off. After all, he’d done it already. And not only when he trapped his tentacles, or when he prevented him from putting his hand on the ground to get back up.

“It seems you’ve understood that every form of mine has a different ability.” The man’s voice interrupted that stream of thoughts. He was serious and terrifying.

“I can’t be protected by Retaliation anymore, but… with **Prediction** , every attack against me becomes vain. Even when, earlier, I pretended to be cornered just to catch you, I neutralized your attacks, letting myself be hit on purpose to reduce the might of your blows.” And he touched the wounds that everyone thought were serious injuries, but were now revealed to be just scratches.

Once his thumb was stained with blood, he brought it to his mouth and cleaned it with his tongue. His glance had hardened, proclaiming a threat from the bottom of his rock-hard heart:

“I swear I’ll destroy you, Hastur!”

As the human crowd cheered, chanting hymns for their reborn hero, someone was still silently dwelling on some thoughts. The mysterious god, although Charlotte was performing elegant twirls with her large gown, wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

-He changed his mind… just because…-

When he and Dante discussed, and the poet refused, he’d fallen into a long silence.

_ “All my life, with all the unspeakable vicissitudes this body of mine went through, marked by pain, betrayal, and humiliation, there was never a palliative that soothed the torments of my soul… more than her eyes. _

_ I met her when I was nine. It was raining, it was a cold day, but neither the water nor the cold could graze me, because that bonfire warmed me: she was smiling. She was beautiful, she brought spring where winter reigned, and peace to my heart. _

_ Ever since the following second, when our eyes broke apart, I started to suffer. I couldn’t know why, and I thought it was an unjust sentence, but I lived with it for several long years.  _

_ Nine more years went by, and spring came back. _

_ “Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare” _

_ (My lady looks so gentle and pure) _

_ What was I thinking? I couldn’t have written a worse verse, a more despicable insult to confine her beauty to such mediocre words. I would have never been able to describe her. _

_ She was indefinable, ineffable, incomprehensible. Seeing her filled my eyes with tears and my heart with screams. Tears and screams of joy? Of fear? Both: I rejoiced in her sight, but I relished the moment I’d lose her once again. _

_ And it was just a greeting. A fleeting meeting in the streets of that city we shared, although she looked like she was from higher Heaven. _

_ What could I do, if not simply answer her greeting? I wasn’t… I’ve never been anyone compared to her. Even if I were king or emperor, I’m sure I would have still trembled, hesitated, hearing her voice and meeting her smile. _

_ But in the end, I was never anyone: a meaningless face to her, among many more faces in the streets. I wonder what she’d think if she found out how many thoughts I dedicated to her, how many excruciating tears of hopelessness, how much atrocious pain consumed in the silence of my anonymous life. _

_ Maybe she’d be scared. Maybe she’d be disgusted. My love would scare her, hurt her. _

_ And if that were the case, only then, I’d feel worse than I’ve ever felt in my life: I couldn’t live in a world like that. I’m sorry if I can scare you, so I’ll be nothing more than a face you’ll casually meet in the street. But please, I only ask you to never stop greeting me.” _

And days, years, centuries, millennia later… he’d stopped thinking back to that burnt page, lost forever. Dante kept his eyes on the ground, not daring to look up yet.

Earlier he’d been reckless, unscrupulous: showing off just to eye mankind’s grandstands and search for that person. He should have been ashamed of himself.

Deep down he knew that, if even he really did see her in that situation, after what he’d become, he’d have preferred to condemn himself rather than break the illusion of the anonymity of his life and find out what she really thought of him. He didn’t want to know.

Maybe he’d win and save mankind, or maybe the whole human race would go extinct, but that wasn’t important: he’d still want to know nothing.

“Destroy me? But… what do you actually want to destroy?”

He’d got distracted. As soon as he noticed that detail, the poet gained back his focus to look in front of him. He just saw the ground, as if he’d never looked up.

“My realm is madness.”

Hastur was behind him, but when he turned around he found nothing. An echo, a whisper behind his back, but then, again, the void. Wherever he turned to, he could barely catch a glimpse of an evanescent figure that crawled out of his sight and disappeared again and again.

“And madness can only be birthed by genius, by creativity, by a superior and inspired mind.”

Fed up with that pressing voice that haunted him, Dante decided to use his Prediction to locate his enemy. So he did, but when he turned around, everything was cut off by an almost metallic noise.

The audience flinched with fear.

None of them could have foreseen that tentacle coming up from underground, under Dante. And, to tell the truth, not even the poet had foreseen it.

He’d just raised his weapon in time to parry the hit, which now was suspended inches away from his face.

-I just… reacted instinctively.- He felt his head being held in a tighter and tighter grip, as the veins on his forehead pulsated at a febrile pace.

Then came another one, from an unknown direction. He didn’t manage to see it this time too, but he swept his rod in a circular movement and the impact was enough to send it back.

“So, while you were underestimating me… I studied the perfect way to kill you!”

That voice came from nowhere, it existed in a far-away lair, forbidden to any common sense. It was able to make Dante break into cold sweats as he was once again targeted by a flurry of new, mysterious, and unstopping blows.

A series of attacks that, however, wasn’t senseless at all, as it seemed to follow a precise rhythm, like a pressing crescendo, that decreased and then soared rapidly, dizzily, disastrously. One could go crazy trying to read the pattern, but that was exactly what the Supreme Poet was forced to do in order to survive.

“It’s… the unknown.” Among mankind’s frightened yells, H.P. Lovecraft’s voice resonated. He spoke almost nostalgically, although terror shone in his eyes.

“The most ancient and visceral feeling of man is fear, and the most ancient and visceral fear is that… of the unknown.”

At the limit of a superhuman effort, Dante realized that, although he managed to predict every single hit last minute, they were followed by so many more simultaneously that it was physically impossible to parry all of them. 

From left and right at the same time. From above and below. From underground, from behind his back, beyond the weapon’s range, from a blind spot.

-I… can’t…- Tears welled up his eyes in exhaustion -...do...it!-

It was right then that, as all of that made him back off to the brink of a precipice, he saw his opponent’s true face.

Hastur was floating at the centre of the arena, with a remnant of his yellow cloak that, animated, spread behind him like the rays of a pale sun. The skin that was revealed could have belonged to a human being, but its shape was so alien and eldritch it didn’t resemble anything in creation. And then there was his face… something absolutely insane, unspeakable, disgusting, obscure, grim: the perdition of all senses in an abyss of terror.

“ **Universal Collapse**!”

From that body, a myriad of tentacles was shot out in every direction like water from a river. Some dug in the earth like roots, others soared up in the sky, eclipsing the sunlight in an arc that then fell back down to the ground, eclipsing also Dante in their torrential rain.

All was being wrapped and mangled, as if violent brushstrokes of bitumen wiped off the light of a white canvas. Piece after piece, brushstrokes of blood after screams of pain, Dante started tumbling down.

He was lured into his enemy’s trap, swallowed in a dark whirlwind.

He looked at Hastur and thought of hurling himself towards him. The tentacles would have torn him to pieces, but maybe he could have stopped them hitting his opponent.

That last hope of his was cancelled when the Yellow King lost every tangible form, becoming an explosion of tentacles that, inevitably, overwhelmed him even from the only direction he thought was safe. There was no eye of the storm. It was all death.

“Beatrice… forgive me.”

_ “So I'll stay unforgiven _

_ And I'll keep love together _

_ And I'll be yours forever _

_ I'll sleep close to Heaven” _

_ -“Close to Heaven”, Breaking Benjamin _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Dante's flashback, which represents a sort of a page of a secret diary, is inspired by the lyrics of the song "Creep" by Radiohead. While the name of the chapter quotes the text of “Diary of Jane”, by Breaking Benjamin. However, the song that is the theme of this fight is the one mentioned in the finale: "Close to Heaven", also by Breaking Benjamin.  
> Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	24. Tragicomedy (Final)

**Chapter 24: Tragicomedy (Final)**

_“When you died, taken away by that flaming drape, even the smell of flowers had withered in the air.”_

It wasn’t simply flowing blood, torn flesh, and broken bones. It was a heart pierced by more than a thousand needles of shame, that screamed and begged for mercy, but wasn’t given any salvation.

Slumped over the ground like a rag, drenched with a drowned in his own blood, Dante looked at the sun that shone again above him.

The ground all around was dislodged, cracked, destroyed, crossed by the signs of hits much more powerful than any human could ever bear. And the poet’s body, torn and dismembered in several spots, was left to die in the sun like a fish on a pier.

The most pathetic end one could expect.

The smell of gore and death went up to mankind’s tribunes, where eyes red from crying laid still, barely daring to hope for something less painful than that sight.

Gemma Donati cried holding her children who, although they were still too young to understand, would have wanted to see their father smile like before. Even those who’d never seen that smile, like the citizens of Florence, Filippo Argent, and Virgil, now cried, touched by that unfortunate end.

“You nasty bastard!” screamed suddenly that squire who’d hated him in life, and who Dante himself had despised so much. “Don’t you dare die like this! What kind of honour were you defending earlier, huh?! This one? That of someone who lets themselves get killed?!”

Argenti’s furious yells unexplainably fueled a fire in the audience’s chests.

Soon all the people who’d been insulted and mocked by the poet, and even those who could never stand him, started scolding him in an accusatory way.

“Show what you’re worth, son!” the poet Virgil exclaimed, lifting the three tomes of the Divine Comedy in the air. Others imitated him, making that work that had brought humanity together for centuries shine in the sun.

On the other side, the gods and even Hastur watched the scene and didn’t take for anything more than what it really was: a lot of noise from desperate people.

But, among all that deafening commotion, a single voice seemed to resound, so vivid it could have been the only voice in the whole crowd:

“Dante…”

And Dante opened his eyes.

He didn’t look at the sun, a white light invested him instead, looking inside him, in the depths of his soul. There, where a crack had split him into three dimensions.

Hell. Purgatory, and finally: -Paradise.-

A life he didn’t live, an adventure no one would ever go on. All of that existed in his mind, inside that hurt soul of his, that only through a path of hope and redemption could once again merge into a single person.

He was Dante Alighieri, just like that voice had called him.

“ **Paradise Form**!”

“What are you.,..?!” Hastur exclaimed when he saw him suddenly move despite his condition. He’d got a lump in his throat when he saw him sit up and, propping his hands on the ground, try to get back up. He leaned on a giant white scythe, the same he’d taken the field with, but now decorated with a small pair of wings at the base of the blade.

He wasn’t the one from before: now his face had black wings on its sides, which oozed red blood.

A white light surrounded him, laying gently on his wounds, like a light veil.

Dante looked up, penetrating the enemy creature with his intense eyes. At that moment the Yellow King tastes a new strength, younger, he’d dared to say, beyond the limits of time and human possibility.

And in front of that threatening determination, he went crazy with rage.

“And this would be your umpteenth transformation?! A cure!” A wave of tentacles dashed towards the poet, stabbing him several times. The man was suspended in the air, dripping blood, and was then thrown on the ground.

Hastur crawled towards him, hoping he’d reached his victory after that move. That wasn’t the case: a rattle and then a cough confirmed that Dante was still alive. The white light laid on him once more.

Other tentacles assaulted him like a thick rain, cracking the soil underneath and creating a chasm dotted with gigantic holes.

“How dare you?!” the deity screamed. “You’re no one! Just a poor fool who dared to challenge the gods! A blasphemous being like you only deserves to disappear, be forgotten by everyone and by history!”

But those attacks were of no use. Dante got back up each time, with great effort, but kept alive by that beneficial light. It was **Blessing** , the ace up his sleeve for that third and last form.

Finally, his mouth opened to belt: “Then let them forget me!” And he got on his feet, against every prediction.

“Be removed from history? I can be okay with it… if I lose. As long as I’m alive… I’m someone! I am Dante Alighieri!”

Struck by that declaration, the monstrous creature wavered. Then he went back to hurling his tentacles everywhere, repeating the attack from earlier.

“You can be Dante Alighieri, but in the end, you’re just a failure of a poet! **Universal Collapse**!”

But, right when the audience expected to see the Yellow King perform the same destructive technique, he’d gone against every expectation.

As fast as lightning, taking advantage of the confusion caused by the unfathomable amount of tentacles, he’d preferred to dash forwards and get a grip of Dante’s scythe. He’d yanked it away from his hands, leaving him unarmed and, for a bunch of seconds, unable to realize what had happened.

It didn’t take long, however, until the poet showed an expression totally different from the proud one he had earlier: he contorted his face in a grimace, backing off and starting to cry profusely.

Prey to the purest terror, he screamed: “W-Wha-Whaaat have you done?!”

And the human spectators were just as shocked, caught off guard both by Hastur’s move and by their vanguard’s unheroic reaction.

Meanwhile, in a newly-found silence, the Yellow King shook the scythe in his tentacle. On his face made of pure darkness a row of teeth appeared, shaped like a monstrous grin, or better, the grotesque parody of a smile.

“You thought I’d fall into your trap? I noticed while you were in your Hell Form, not long ago…”

_ “Oh my God! What’s happening?!” _

“You’d lost your grip on your weapon, and at that moment you seemed to have regained the personality and the strength of when you first made your entrance on the battlefield. So I got that this is your Sephirot’s weakness, you have to touch your weapon to use your powers!”

Only hearing that speech was enough to make the mysterious god shiver, understanding just in how much trouble Dante was.

“So this means that… for all this time…?” the poet murmured, although his throat was hoarse and his breath short.

“Correct. I stalled too, pretending to be cornered. However, it would have been very hard to unarm you with your Prediction, so I showed you my most powerful attack, which is impossible to parry. This way I instilled in you fear for that move, forcing you to keep your guard up to defend yourself every time you’d see it, without ever thinking my real goal was to take your weapon away from you!”

The ancient and mysterious god burst out in hysterical laughter, drunken with the winning strategy he’d carried on until then. Even he, like Dante, had revealed himself to be a sly strategist and deceiver, but his plan was way more subtle and efficient.

“So I guess this is the end for me.”

Although those words were true, no one would have expected to hear them come from Dante’s calm and resigned voice. The Supreme Poet had looked up with a bittersweet smile on his face, accepting his fate.

Even Hastur didn’t know how to react.

“Good people of Creation! Whether you’re old or young, but still doomed to see the end of your paths… it was nice to finally have someone cheer for me.” Dante had turned towards mankind’s grandstands, waving at them with his eyes squinted to hide the tears.

-Something’s up- Hastur sensed. -Could it be a trap?-

“...but, despite your support, I wasn’t able to do anything. It seems this god is too strong. I’d define him the strongest of gods, beyond the shadow of a doubt… what could a simple human like me do?”

And, facing his opponent, he widened his arms: “Come on, I’m waiting for your fatal hit. Put me out of my misery!”

-It’s definitely a trap! But how can this…?-

“However, before you end me with your might, I have a request.” The man raised his index finger.

-I absolutely can’t hit him now!-

But ignoring the psychological battle that was tearing the god apart, Dante continued:

“I am grateful for my existence as a human, although my fate has always been in the gods’ hands. However, if life truly is a divine gift, I don’t think I have to be grateful to anyone for what I’ve accomplished with it… other than to myself. The same goes for all humans: why does it matter who gave us life? Aren’t all the goals we reach, the victories, love, more important? And even the pain that only a weak and meaningless human on the brink of hopelessness can feel? Punishment, repentance… are they really necessary if in the end we’ll still suffer, make mistakes, rejoice, and love? We don’t have to let the divine stop us… because our thought is human and limited.”

After that speech, declared all in one breath, the smile on his mouth had grown more fearsome. Behind his back, a crowd full of men and women inspired and moved by his words was agitating, more united than ever to break free of that nightmare that oppressed them.

Hastur was panting heavily, barely holding back his impulse to jump on his opponent after such blasphemous phrases full of insults.

He was so busy holding himself back, he was surprised when Dante spoke to him: “And now, do you…”

“ _...taneriao mtare?_ ”

The moment was so tense that a single hair falling on the ground would have shattered the illusion of unmoving calm that permeated the arena. However, as much as Hastur was restraining himself, he couldn’t refrain from reacting in the most natural way, as he didn’t understand what the other had asked him.

“Huh?”

And at that moment, Dante’s smile widened so much it reached his ears. He’d waited so long for that moment.

He puffed his cheeks, then he lowered both his hands and stopped them on his crotch, as he whistled: “ _Stoc***!_ ” *

What he actually said was so vulgar, mean, and despicable that no one would ever expect to hear it from someone who boasted the title of Vate, Supreme Poet. In the whole colosseum, both gods and humans blushed in embarrassment.

Shame: the feeling that takes over when the humiliation is so great it takes away your peace of mind, channeling all sensation towards an ever-growing unrest that eats you up from the inside.

And Hastur, the Yellow King, lord of nightmares, of temples and of ruined cities, who’d just been mocked with a childish joke, wasn’t immune at all to that violent and visceral shame.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist” Dante was laughing, sincere tears in his eyes.

“I’ll kill you!!” Hastur jumped on him, shapeshifting into the most terrifying form he could, something absolutely unfathomable for any mind, even divine or supernatural.

He was terror, nightmare, madness.

Anyway, in the instant he was done with his wild attack, he froze like a statue. He’d torn his opponent to pieces, or so he thought: the poet was already regenerating thanks to Blessing.

“You can’t take it anymore, can you? I mean, your body… it can’t take another attack.”

And so Hastur lowered his eyes, looking at his body for the first time. Where the yellow cape or the armour wasn’t covering his skin anymore, he saw gashes, fractures, cracks, and lacerations. He would have flinched if his destroyed muscles had allowed him to.

“Why?! Why didn’t I feel any of this?!” he cried, panicking, prisoner of his own body. A violent snap interrupted him, then he fell.

His lower limbs had now turned to dust, leaving him to writhe on the ground.

“Simple: you mistakenly thought that, once I take another form, I can’t use the powers from the previous ones. That’s wrong: while I was in my Purgatory Form I could still use Retaliation… but, thanks to the surgical precision of that form, and thanks to Prediction, I was able to cut all your nerves. So you didn’t feel any pain, and didn’t notice all the times your attacks were reflected on you.”

The Yellow King was witnessing the effects of his most devastating moves. Even his arms disappeared like sand in the wind.

“But… you don’t have a weapon now! How could you-”

“That’s what you thought” Dante cut him off, moving his jacked at the same time.

He showed how, next to his heart, a piece of bone was embedded in his flesh, belonging to the weapon of the Sephirot Binah: “I always had it here, just in case.”

While Hastur thought he was one step ahead of him, Dante had secretly predicted the whole battle.

“And now…” the poet towered over the abyssal creature, dominating him as he emitted an annihilating aura, a pressure deeper than that at the center of the Earth.

He raised his scythe.

“ **White Rose of the End of the World**!”

“W-Wait! Stop! I surrender!”

As that scream still echoed in the air, the audience was baffled.

Hel and Fenrir widened their eyes, as well as the organizer gods Baal and Ptah.

St. Peter and Adramelech could barely repeat: “He surrendered?!”, not sure they’d heard him right.

The gods’ faces were painted with horror, while the humans’ lightened up. Hope had been chased until the very end, and after those words, they’d reached victory.

Then, the announcers didn’t refrain from proclaiming: “Hastur forfeits, ladies and gentlemen! Incredible, but true!”

Mankind burst into a collective roar of exultation. Boudicca and Charlotte hugged each other in excitement, while Guy Fawkes dedicated the “storyteller” a standing applause. The mysterious god, meanwhile, wickedly laughed as he caressed his chin.

“After a fierce battle, the match ends with a declared surrender… and this way, the unequivocal victory goes to… Dante Alighieri!”

His wife Gemma and the kids, along with Filippo Argenti and the poet Virgil, moved, celebrated the victory of that strange and eccentric poet. He, who’d now looked up towards his kind, stuttering with a timid smile:

“So this is the true recognition I deserve… heaven, it’s almost scary!”

It all froze. His breath, his bloodstream, and even that entrancing vision disappeared from his eyes like smoke blown away from the wind.

A black tentacle now pierced through his chest, at heart height, emerging from the dark depths of a slimy and subtle creature, who’d waited for the right moment to strike.

_ Gaea’s words were crystal clear: _

_ “Whether you win or lose, that doesn’t matter… if anything, we’ll have the most satisfaction if you lost but still managed to get your revenge on mankind for what Charlotte Corday did.” _

_ That’s why the human wasn’t punished: the gods, convinced by Mother Earth, were way more pleased by the idea of a ruthless and dishonouring vengeance to watch mankind’s hope be crushed before their eyes. _

Hastur had smiled then, but now his smile was even more wide and sick, drunken with that immense happiness.

“Missed” Dante told him, now behind his back.

The Yellow King, caught off guard, let out a horrified scream, but as he turned around he fell to the ground.

The poet was still standing, looming over him, this time with a delighted smile.

“As I already told you, I can constantly use the abilities from my three forms… Prediction included. I’d foreseen your plan, well in advance.”

“B-But… I hit you!” He saw his tentacle still floating mid-air, not a single drop of blood on it.

“You were so blinded by your bloodthirst that you saw what you wanted to see, that’s to say, victory.”

Dante lifted the scythe from his shoulder, then slowly lowering it downwards.

“But I like it better like this… although the bout was already over, it would have really bothered me if I hadn’t kept my promise. Remember?”

_ “I swear I’ll destroy you, Hastur!” _

This time, the ancient being truly tasted, with no tricks nor deception, that sensation he strove so much to arouse in others: despair.

As soon as the tip of the scythe touched him, he felt the sky, the earth, and all of creation crumble over him to compress him and destroy him.

“ **White Rose of the End of the World**!”

At first, he screamed, but the catastrophe brought by a violent and sudden death suppressed every vital function of his. However, as his physical form disappeared forever, he saw his body twitch in between the grip of clawed hands: they came from beneath, from the depths of the Earth.

And there, when a flame-shaped like a shiny rose swallowed him, he disappeared for eternity with immense and endless sorrow.

Now that the battle was really over, Dante had nothing left to do but sigh.

-My last… breath.-

He’d run out of strength, and not even the white light of the Paradise Form didn’t kiss him anymore. Every transformation and every ability were merely a faraway memory, as the Sephirot’s support vanished.

He felt himself get weaker, as he saw everything around him turn into light, and he dived into it.

-Is this really what it was worth fighting for?-

Friends, family, salvation, hope, glory. What was left of it, in death’s cold hug?

Slowly, fragments of his souls broke away from him, dancing in the brightness.

-But I’m not happy at all, because up until my last breath I felt… fear.-

He fell to the ground.

-Fear of… meeting… those eyes…-

“Dante.”

That voice! It was the second time it called him out of slumber, and suddenly it was as if an even brighter light had appeared before him, something he’d never ever seen before.

He was falling, yes, but his eyes soared up, challenging time and space.

And there, he saw her again.

“Thanks for all of this, Dante.” The most beautiful smile in the world, full of sweetness, cleared his soul, wiping away every regret of his even at that fatal moment.

-Thanks to you… Beatrice… for walking with me up until the end of this beautiful comedy.-

As he smiled too, he stomped a foot on the ground, stopping his fall.

He didn’t die breaking apart into bright fragments, instead he held his head up high as hot tears wet his red cheeks. He’d found the strength to keep on living, although his battle was over: to hope.

Hope for mankind’s salvation, so that more love just as beautiful as his could blossom, in spite of any fear and perdition.

_ Shortly after: _

After the surprising experience of the sixth bout, the tribunes were resting among anxious sighs. Despite the gods’ two consecutive victories, mankind was able to reach a tie.

The situation grew more and more restless and tense.

Unlike that normal tension, the goddess Gaea was undergoing a way more serious restlessness. Sat at the centre of a dark room, her head in her hands, she clenched her teeth, monstrously distorting her face until it was gruesome.

The earth itself quivered, chunks of stones fell from the walls, and the air itself seemed to be made of thick and sick mud, contorting around the goddess’s black heart.

The rage for Hastur’s defeat, as well as for his inability to kill Dante, was the umpteenth humiliation. She felt threatened by the pressing hand of her archenemy, dragging her down until she was on her knees. The pressure grew more and more each time.

But she wouldn’t break, nor bend.

“That’s why you’ll go next… because you’re one of the strongest.”

Behind her, Fenrir had waited patiently, apathetic even though the environment was hostile to every living being.

“And if you die and dare to humiliate me again…” The goddess’s hand clenched around his face, yanking it towards hers, which was now nothing but a chasm full of thick petrol and other deep horrors.

“...I won’t spare your sister, Hel. I’ll send both of you to the Nifhel, destroying your souls beyond repair!”

This time, even the insensitive and detached Fenrir broke into cold sweats, and profusely too.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the underground structure, the humans’ waiting room had been emptied. Charlotte, Boudicca, and Guy Fawkes had been sent elsewhere, so only two people were left there.

The mysterious god was facing a wall, muttering to himself. The satisfaction due to victory had vanished after Dante’s return. He sure couldn’t show a grim and smileless face to the surviving human champions, or else they’d be disheartened.

“I want you to choose me as the next fighter.” With a gentle but authoritarian tone, that giant, caped figure with golden curls pretentiously spoke to him.

“I’m afraid I can’t. I have to save you as my last resource, my precious. Until now I played, provoking the gods, but now the stakes are too high to lose, and victory is still far away… I’ll have to play dirty, with strategies and low blows. The crushing strength you dispose of will be of use in the worst scenario.”

He slightly turned around, catching a glimpse of a serious expression that betrayed some kind of sadness in those bright blue eyes.

“Forgive me for doing this to you. But you know you can always trust me, Arthur.”

“Of course… _Merlin_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sixth bout is over, and the mysterious god's identity has finally been revealed!  
> See you soon for the next chapter, and join the official Discord server to stay updated: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7  
> Which fighters do you want to see the design of, before the next fight? https://forms.gle/iwtJybbCQSC6Nuow7


	25. British Ninja

**Chapter 25: British Ninja**

Fenrir walked through the garden, which kind of looked like a park, with a tense look.

The air was warm, thanks to the sunlight that filtered through the leaves and created colorful mosaics as it hit the pavement. Beyond the trees, some blossomed hedges and bushes decorated that idyllic resting place, whose existence was unexpected in that colosseum where the most important battle in history was being disputed.

The wolf turned the corner, reaching a square filled only by a bench in the shadow of an apple tree. A man dressed in black, his cape folded on his arm, was sitting there reading a book. His face was concealed by a white mask with a sharp smile, framed by long, wavy hair: the hat he usually wore was on his knee, moving slightly when the man bounced his leg.

“Ah!” he flinched, lowering the book to not have any obstacles between his eyes and Fenrir’s, who’d just appeared in front of him. His voice grew more sly, as he put the book away next to him. It was titled “ _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ ”.

“Pleased to meet you, my good… wolf.” His voice cracked because of a laugh he just couldn’t hold back. “I’m sorry, really. It’s just that, according to popular legends, when you meet a wolf you don’t even have the time to greet it before it eats you.”

But the silver wolf didn’t answer the joke, looking at the man sternly and uninterestedly.

“But I know that right now you don’t want to devour me. Our match has been announced, but in these moments that precede it we don’t necessarily have to be foes.”

The deity finally spoke: “I’ll follow my orders when I have to, exactly. But I’m not going to kill you because we are enemies, or out of hate…”

Guy Fawkes propped his head on his head, staring at the other before commenting: “Of course: you’re going to kill me only because it’s your duty.” And, dwelling on the wolf’s serious eyes, he couldn’t hold back laughter for the second time.

“What’s so funny?”

“O-Oh, you know… in some way, I feel more relieved knowing I won’t have to fight against someone who hates me, or who thinks I’m a flea compared to him. There’s respect in all of this. I guess that, if you didn’t respect me, you wouldn’t be here talking to me either.”

“Relieved? You know you’re going to die and you feel relieved just because I’m not seizing the opportunity to eliminate you right now?”

“Of course! How can I be sad, knowing it’ll be a fair match? I couldn’t expect any less from someone as strict as you. I remember when you didn’t let Gilgamesh intervene, during the first bout, and Charlotte told me about your encounter from some time ago.”

This time the wolf stayed silent, and so he let the Englishman walk closer to him during his pressing speech.

“I trust your fairness, Ragnarok Wolf” he concluded, making his voice vibrate against the mask.

“Where do you want to do with this?”

“Where do I want to… go?”

And, abandoning the depth from earlier, Guy Fawkes let out another trilling laughter. Then he pointed upwards with his finger.

“To the moon, my dear!”

Fenrir raised an eyebrow, but he wasn’t given the time to talk.

“During all these years of evolution, the humans built machines that allowed them to visit the celestial bodies. The sky was once exclusive to the gods, but now… helicopters, airplanes, spaceships… what separates man from god? As a further demonstration that mankind’s potential is far superior to the gods’, I suggest you think back to Masutatsu Oyama, Vlad, and Dante Alighieri!” Taking a break to catch his breath, Guy Fawkes linked his fingers together and brought them to his chin.

“I bet you came here because you acknowledge there’s potential within me.”

“No” Fenrir bluntly answered, now with agitation in his voice. “I came here following the scent of gunpowder.”

“Ah. Yes” the Englishman sighed. “Of course, you followed the trace up to me because, on the other side, the smell was covered up.”

“What?!”

But, before his voice reached Guy Fawkes’s ears, the boom of an explosion drowned out every sound. Turning the air the colour of copper, a heat deflagration swallowed part of the colosseum behind Fenrir’s back, casting his shadow on the garden.

To tell the truth, it wasn’t just his gigantic shadow looming on the garden: slightly above that, there was Guy Fawkes’s shadow too, with the light of the fire that pierced through his mask to engrave his eyes and his lips bent in a smile on the ground.

The rustle of the leaves, moved by the wind, sounded like a meaningless whisper after the wolf’s ears had been deafened. The boom still echoed in his bones and each heartbeat reminded him of that explosive might.

He stood still, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.

“It would be horrible if something similar affected the gods, and didn’t just limit itself to making a small, deserted area crumble.” Guy Fawkes’s voice was almost deafening in the silence, almost stronger and more explosive than the explosion itself. He actually just whispered, leaning towards Fenrir’s ear.

“Do you remember when I mentioned Masutatsu, Vlad, and Dante? I was thinking… if their potential was enough to kill a god, in a fair match, with on par weapons… imagine what I can achieve by playing dirty!”

He murmured something in his ear, then disappeared lowering the hat on his head.

And as he walked away, leaving his new enemy paralyzed with shock behind him, he repeated:

“I trust your fairness, Fenrir!”

As much as the sun could shine, and the light persist, the shadows would always lurk just out of sight.

After the panic from the explosion had settled down, the gods and the humans in the colosseum were called on the grandstands. The event was unexpected and still wrapped in mystery, and even the organizer gods seemed to be belittling it.

What was really important, in these final phases of the Ragnarok, was who’d fight and win the seventh bout.

The Valhalla Arena had an unusual battlefield this time: it was a dark and barren land, the same colour as dried blood, marked by cracks and crevasses. A couple of dead, lonely trees towered under a cloudy, rainy sky. A dried river crossed the field, with rocks and debris in its bed.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We’re about to witness the definitive playoff! Whoever scores a point steps closer to the conclusion! Will the staunch tête-à-tȇte continue… or will we witness a sequence of crushing victories?!”

No one had the answer to all those questions, but it was impossible not to wonder and be devoured by anticipation and tension. That ashen sky above everything and everyone was the perfect representation of the general tumultuous mood.

“Let mankind’s vanguard make their entrance…”

When the door on mankind’s side opened, an impetuous jet of smoke came out, anticipating the entrance of a man.

“ _Remember, remember, the Fifth of November: The Gunpowder Treason and Plot. I see of no reason why Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot_ … when, on that fifth of November 1605, he was found in the basement of the English Parliament, they could have never imagined a man with such a devilish plan could exist!” 

In the silence, the masked man stopped. With a foot put forwards and the other one aligned with his hips, he bowed down taking off his hat.

“A foolish conspirator who wanted to change his country… by destroying it! The one who plots in the dark, in the light of a candle… behind his mask of machiavellian genius!”

“The Gunpowder Plotter… Guy Fawkes!”

When the human crowd roared behind him, and just then, Guy got up from that formal and uncomfortable bow. Fixing the wide-brimmed hat on his head, he turned around to eye his supporters.

“While, on the gods’ side…”

As the portal opened, a vibration shook the air and the ground. Everything quivered, although almost unperceivably, but it didn’t seem to be due to an earthquake: it was a melodic sound that made the atmosphere itself oscillate, distorting space with its intensity.

“The strongest beast ever born! Neither the sky nor the earth could bind his might!”

Four eyes lit up in the dark, belonging to two giant figures. They were quadruped animals, bigger than every existing mammal.

Pointy ears, furry tails, long snouts armed with teeth, and clawed paws.

“Are those… wolves?!” asked the humans, who’d never seen such big wolves before.

Those presences, however, were revealed to be two younglings who stopped at the sides of the portal.

Skǫll and Hati, the two wolves who chased respectively the sun and the moon, didn’t step forward. Their duty was just to announce the one who was now howling: their father.

“Bringer of death and destruction, feared even by the mightier gods. One day, everyone knew it, he’d arrive here, at the final match, at history’s terminal!”

When the sound stopped, everyone could hear two very distinct thuds. Heavy paws cracked the ground, as they supported a weight much superior to that of the two wolves.

If they were bigger than every living mammal, the third wolf who was now emerging from the shadows was undoubtedly bigger than any mammal that had ever crossed the Earth, that’s to say bigger than a mammoth.

A colossus in his size, with two gaped maws foamy and bloody saliva dripped out from. Simply catching a glimpse of that demonic being in the dark was enough to instill pure terror in both gods and humans, because the creature coming out of the shadow was the embodiment of a fury that didn’t know obstacles.

“The Ragnarok Wolf…”

And then he came out: silver hair, a ripped blue suit marked by claw marks, and a scarf made of chains wrapped around his neck and mouth. His eyes seemed to be made of glass because of how clear and bright they were, and they silently analyzed the battlefield.

“...Fenrir!”

After the seventh divine fighter had entered the Arena, the gods seemed to have regained the necessary composure to not be petrified with fear anymore. The strength that transpired from the Ragnarok Wolf was now a boast.

“You go! Chief of Security!”

“Destroy that pathetic human!”

But as much as they cheered for him, Fenrir was completely indifferent to their praises. His eyes were the perfect expression of his soul, as cold as a glacier and as dark as a moonless night.

“Win, dad!” his sons told him, greeting him with a pat on the shoulder. “You’ll make it!”

And when the young wolves had left him alone too, he kept his composure and didn’t open his mouth to talk.

“The Ragnarok… begins!” And followed by the exultations from the crowd, the announcers commenced the seventh bout.

Nonetheless, unlike the previous bouts which had started with heat and blood, none of the fighters budged. A strange, gloomy wind blew on the rotting land.

“What? What’s happening? Why aren’t they moving?” people were wondering on the grandstands, dumbfounded by that weird beginning.

Guy Fawkes and Fenrir looked like two statues, each at its place, and didn’t seem to intend on moving as time passed.

“It’s obvious! How can you not get it?” a massive voice rumbled, coming from a body that was just as massive. “My little brother knows he could end the match in a single hit, so he’s just choosing his finisher move!” 

From the waist up he was humanoid, a guy with a light green hoodie opened on an emerald green shirt, spiky red hair, and two snake-like eyes. Other details were his scaled skin, like a reptile, four teeth that were so sharp and long they came out of the mouth, along with a forked tongue every time he spoke, and the rest of his body: instead of legs, he had a colossal, scaled, green body which unwinded on all of the grandstands and out of the colosseum. But that tail popped back up next to the point where it overrode the colosseum’s wall, going back under its owner’s arm, folded like a rope.

“F-For real?!” Hati exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. His brother Skǫll answered with a smirk: “Of course! It’s our father we’re talking about, after all!” Then he looked up to the immense creature who’d talked before, who’d now drawn the attention of the majority of the gods.

“Right, uncle?”

Jormungandr, the snake of the world, so mastodonic he could wrap the Earth, was cheering for his brother Fenrir beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“Trust me, kids! No god around here can doubt his power!” and hissing, he looked down on all the deities who’d suddenly looked away from him.

The fear that monstrous lineage instilled paralyzed every god: that was why Fenrir was chosen as Chief of Security.

“Rather, I’m wondering why our sister Hel isn’t here to watch him fight…”

Meanwhile, on the battlefield, in Guy Fawkes’s eyes, Fenrir wasn’t the mythical and terrible bogeyman everyone feared.

-A...ah…- The man wanted to laugh, but he held himself back. The reason for his restrained euphoria was a hysterical exasperation he’d just come out of, after that silence and wait.

Fenrir hadn’t attacked him, so he was alive.

-And if Fenrir doesn’t attack me…- He bowed his head, casting a shadow on his mask which left out its painted smile. -...it means everything’s going according to plan!-

_ When after the explosion he’d leaned next to Fenrir’s ear, he’d whispered these words: _

_ “Killing you isn’t indispensable to me, so if we give the audience a decent show where you lose and give up, we’ll all be happy. And you know who’s going to be even happier, because they’re not going to be blown up by a Sephirot? All the gods gathered here.” _

As opposed to the mythological beast, now the Ragnarok Wolf was a scared puppy, trembling with the tail between its legs. The audience, up above on the grandstands, couldn’t imagine this, and so no one could notice something was wrong with Fenrir’s behaviour.

“That Guy Fawkes…” instead, someone on mankind’s tribunes was looking at the battlefield with suspicion. “...he’s plotting something.”

It was Robert Cecil, master of spies in the England of King James I. Who could know the plotter better than him, who’d ruined his plan of blowing up the Parliament?

Another Englishman watched the scene too: a presence that was able to flabbergast all the nearby humans, none other than the world’s most famous playwright, William Shakespeare. Although he was known for his goliardic behaviour, now he was boiling with silent rage which made his face as dark as night.

Meanwhile, Guy Fawkes deeply sighed with relief, calming down the frantic beating of his heart.

“For whom the bell tolls?” he hissed through clenched teeth, while with a flick of his arms he lifted the cape that laid along his hips. He revealed two holsters he pulled out a couple of knives from, holding them tight in his hands.

Then, throwing them forward, he declared: “Thou must die!”

Fenrir’s face didn’t change at all, inscrutable as always, even when one of his glacial eyes was stabbed by one of the knives. The other one was aimed at the heart, and there he pierced through the suit and the flesh.

The gods flinched, but it wasn’t over yet: another rain of knives fell onto the wolf, turning him into a pincushion.

“Guy Fawkes hit Fenrir with no way out!” the announcers yelled, shocked by the absurdity of the scene. Every expectation had been flipped around, breaking the blind trust the gods had in their vanguard.

“Fenrir!” Even Jormungandr winced, followed by his nephews: “Dad!”

On the battlefield, the two contestants had stopped moving once again, going back to their statue-like stillness.

Now the wind made the Englishman’s cape fly sideways, making it look as if he had a single black wing stretched upwards.

“This…” A voice broke the silence. “...is not your Weapon.”

Guy Fawkes curiously looked at Fenrir’s slightly surprised expression, with his only eye wide with awe.

“Yes… forgive the joke” the man confessed in the end, sincerely repentant.

Slowly, now that the trick had been revealed, the knives fell off of Fenrir’s body without having actually pierced through his flesh: their blades had bent as if they were made out of paper.

And as the gods grew more and more shocked, he insisted: “But… did you know it? Or did you want to risk it all?”

Upon that question, the Ragnarok Wolf reacted in a brand new way: tilting his head sideways and shrugging, he raised his eyebrows to assume an innocent expression.

“I didn’t move because I didn’t want to.”

Something inside Guy Fawkes broke, and then exploded shattering into a myriad of shards. The man suddenly plunged back into the abyss of uncertainty from earlier, where everything was dark and unclear.

-He doesn’t want to honour our deal?!- He’d realized it only after that reaction.

Fenrir’s behaviour wasn’t dictated by fear, but by boredom: he hadn’t attacked him just because he didn’t feel like it. Even at that moment, that expression of his could mean anything and conceal a totally different intention.

To that beast, ending someone else’s life was a matter of mood.

-Or maybe he deceived me to then play me?- Although he would have wanted to focus on something else, this question inevitably dashed into Guy Fawkes’s mind: -Am I really standing before such a cruel being?-

He was finally starting to perceive what everybody else saw: Fenrir’s true nature.

After that trivial conversation, the wolf did something just as meaningless to him:

“ **Lœðingr**!”

An end of the chain his scarf was made of moved autonomously, bolting forwards.

“Fenrir is… attacking!” Adramelech screamed, observing that steel flash cut through the air.

Guy Fawkes was as impressed as them, because he’d never imagined Fenrir would use such a move in battle; however, since he’d already been on alert for some time now, he was quick enough to dodge it.

“But Guy Fawkes avoids the attack!” St. Peter continued. “Or… almost?!” 

In fact, the chain missed its target, but kept on moving along its path. Apparently having no destination, it kept unravelling forwards without ever slowing down, and then changed direction mid-air to head towards the spot its target had just landed on.

“An attack that gives no breaks, ladies and gentlemen!”

“A chain?! What kind of combat style is this?” the humans wondered, terrified by that tracking attack that was hunting Guy Fawkes down. They watched their vanguard jump around in every direction, run and dodge last second, but the chain Lœðingr had no intention of giving up its chase.

“Yes… who would have thought of something like this?” Jormungandr hissed sneeringly, smiling again now that his brother had made his first move.

“When the gods tried to trap Fenrir with all the chains they had, they managed to tie him down only on their third attempt, with the chain Gleipnir. That madman, when he was freed, asked only one thing: to keep the chains that had been used on him! This way, he developed a combat technique with chains that are able to tie a god down!”

The wolf’s kids listened to that tale with awe in their eyes, until they were distracted by a detail they hadn’t noticed before: “But, uncle Jorm… if he’s using Lœðingr to attack right now… which chain is that one?”

Not even Jormungandr could answer that question, in fact, he was as surprised as them by what they’d pointed out: a giant cocoon of chains was secured to Fenrir’s back, almost like a chrysalis.

-I have no idea… but if it’s another one of his absurd strategies, maybe no one in the world could understand it.-

As much as Guy Fawkes kept his eyes on the chain and was able to see it perfectly even with the speed it was moving at, a disturbing feeling froze the blood in his veins.

-It’s accelerating!- He comprehended that Fenrir was showing only a portion of his true power.

A wolf does not jump on its prey as soon as it spots it: it can hunt it down for days on end, lure it into a favourable territory, and hit it brutally after it’s been exhausted.

-I can’t end up like that!-

But as much as the man could hope and run breaking his own limits thanks to adrenaline, he can’t avoid the unavoidable. Before he even saw it, Guy felt the pain: a pang in the centre of his chest.

Where the most expert snipers aim: human body’s centre of mass, the solar plexus, apparently less lethal than the head, but actually so close to the vital organs and the spine it almost assures a deadly hit.

The chain had pierced through his body like a skewer, while his black cape, that now wasn’t flying around anymore, was stuck to his back. Drops of blood dripped onto the ground, drawn by that chain that kept on flowing into his wound like a train in a gallery. It stopped after a while, having drawn a path in the air that took up most of the arena, linking the two contestants.

It wasn’t the red thread of fate that bound them together, but a steel snare red with blood.

-How ironic- the man thought, as his vital energy flowed out of him through that wound.

“Guy…”

-Huh?-

“Guy!”

_ “Guy!” _

_ His mother had called him while he was playing with his friends. There was worry in her eyes, and she restlessly glanced left and right, but when the kid came up to her she made an effort to smile sweetly. _

_ “Do not play with those kids” she told him, rubbing a wet cloth on his hair and then caressing it. “They’re protestant… and they wouldn’t be kind to people like us if they found out who we really are.” _

_ It was the 1570s, a time that, to Catholics in England, meant hell on Earth. After Queen Elizabeth I had ordered in 1558 that all English citizens convert to Protestantism, every catholic was to be considered an enemy of the crown and worthy of persecution. _

_ Edith Fawkes, Guy’s mother, had converted to Protestantism by her husband’s will, to not be arrested or worse. However, the woman had never stopped considering herself catholic, and consequently, she was firmly convinced her kid was catholic too: with someone else to share that burdensome sacrifice with, she felt less lonely and more devoted to that kind of martyrdom. _

_ However, young Guy Fawkes didn’t care much about the religious matters that tore his country apart and made it suffer, as one would expect from a child. He found something mystical in his mother’s devout words and prayers, but they were nothing more than magical incantations to his ears, they didn’t touch any strings in his heart. _

_ “Promise me you’ll always believe in God, Guy…” the woman told him, looking him in the eye so intensely that she was moved. “I beg you… at all costs… for the greater good.” _

_ **The greater good** _ _. _

_ Two words Guy never understood, as much as he heard them constantly. According to his mother, everything that happened in the world, and every human deed, was to be traced back to the will of a superior being, with unfathomable intentions and therefore much higher than common mortals. _

_ Rarely some human could grasp a small part of that will, and interpret it to teach it. Those people were special, and were called in many ways: saints, messiahs, prophets, saviours. According to Edith, every English catholic that defended their faith was worthy of these titles, because of the great sacrifice they were making. _

_ But Guy didn’t care about these matters beyond earthly life. _

_ And for this reason, he didn’t pay much attention to the words spoken at his father’s funeral in 1579, limiting himself to attending the ceremony with boredom, just like his mother. _

_ Some years later however the woman got married again, so she said, to “a man that can harness fate”. Another way to call those high individuals, so another catholic that hid his faith.  _

_ But this man was really different, and although young Guy Fawkes didn’t care much, he felt he was someone determined to topple the kingdom and end the oppression perpetuated by Queen Elizabeth: a man called conspirator. _

_ He didn’t know much about him, but every now and then, in the heart of night, he peeped into the house’s tabernacle. His new dad sat with other men around a cross, only with the light of candles. Those sessions were permeated by an atmosphere that had nothing to do with religion, and the tension in the air presaged the dangerousness of the matter. _

_ Those men visited them so often that Guy Fawkes ended up becoming friends with a kid, son of one of the conspirators: Robert Catesby. Young Robert kept him company during those long days their parents were busy, making small talk and playing like kids. _

_ But the boy seemed to be more informed than him about the topics discussed during the sessions: _

_ “You know, the Shakespeare family from Stratford, catholic too, started writing to my dad. They’ll probably come to visit us too, one day. So we’ll be even more catholic.” _

_ -Against a whole kingdom of protestants- he would have wanted to add, but he didn’t want to be too cynical. After all, he was a kid, and it was already surprising that some gossip about the usual thing he’d been hearing since he was born had caught his attention. _

_ However, while he was busy talking, the boy noticed he’d ended up in a part of the house he’d never been to. It was his new father’s office, a room he was forbidden from entering ever since the man had moved in with them. _

_ He looked around, and meeting nothing other than Robert’s equally curious eyes, he beckoned him to follow him without making any noise. Once they were in, they found a dark room, because the windows were hermetically closed from the inside. The table was lit by a candle, revealing various letters and papers either stacked up or scattered. _

_ It seemed that several books built columns all around on the floor, making the exploration difficult. So Guy chose to take the candle from the tray and use it to shed some light. _

_ Turning around, he found before his eyes something he’d never seen before, something he’d symbolically pried from the darkness to bring it to his knowledge. It was a lidless barrel, inside which was a grainy powder, darker than coffee. _

_ On the barrel was the word: “Gunpowder”. _

_ Before Guy’s awe wore down, or before Robert could warn him, a drop of hot wax fell downwards. That single white hot drop - who would have imagined - turned into light as soon as it touched the powder. _

_ Everything became blinding light, like the one Guy heard of in his mother’s religious tales. A light that overwhelmed everything, even sound: a loud boom that made the house’s foundation tremble, except for two walls of the office that crumbled down instantly. _

_ More alarmed than ever, all the people gathered in the house ran to the rubble in the room. Robert Catesby was saved by his father, although he’d stayed far enough from the barrel as to not have any injuries. _

_ “Guy!!” Edith yelled, calling the son she didn’t see anymore. _

_ She searched everywhere, in rubble and debris, even among the flames that were dying down. When even her new husband was done looking for him everywhere, the two of them glanced at the outdoor garden the now absent wall made visible. _

_ There they found, lying face-up like a snow angel in ash and dirt, a kid covered in black but with a dazzling smile on his face. _

_ Any other human being that had been so close to such an explosion could have become blind, or deaf, or at least report burns and serious injuries. However, contrary to popular belief, an explosion is never identical to another, and this isn’t about its intensity or its power. It’s about its deflagration: exactly how a flame’s dance is unpredictable, the combustion of an explosive can assume any particular form. _

_ And, in Guy’s unique case, he was overcome by the shock wave, which hurled him backwards before the flames could reach him. _

_ The child abruptly sat up, looking at his parents. _

_ “Mom!” he screamed, with energy that overflowed from his lungs to his mouth, which was contracted with happiness. _

_ “I saw it! Finally, I saw it: the greater good!” _

_ And so, that day, Guy Fawkes found God in the explosion. _

_ “So your life too is bound with something like an explosion?!” When he heard that story, the man couldn’t refrain from grinning, then burst out laughing, slapping his knee. _

_ Guy discreetly gloated, then tried not to appear too proud: “No! I’d never dare to say my purpose in life is on par with yours, sir…”  _

_ Speaking in private, although with a distance dictated by respect and admiration, the man had just vented to another of mankind’s vanguards: Masutatsu Oyama. _

_ “Even though we’re both men who know what it means to kill with an explosion, what you managed to do in the first bout of this tournament is…” The Englishman felt so meaningless just remembering the battle Masutatsu had won. _

_ As much as he’d been fascinated by explosions the same way a devout man is fascinated by God, what that incredible man’s punches had accomplished was an unparalleled show. _

_ The karateka put his chin in his hand, thoughtfully. _

_ “Well, you might be right… we’re different, and that kind of explosion… isn’t fit for you. You’re a coward!” After saying such blunt words, and after noticing how much the Englishman’s mood had sunk, Mas clumsily shook his hands. _

_ “Hey, hey, wait!” Once he’d caught Guy’s attention, without letting him be disheartened he added: _

_ “Not the bad type of coward, I meant coward like a… ninja!” _

_ “Ninja?” _

_ “You don’t know ninjas?!” _

_ Masutatsu Oyama then proceeded to introduce that man, a bunch of centuries older than him, to a world he could have never imagined while he was alive. _

Kayakujutsu is a combat style used by ninjas, whose name means “art of gunpowder”. It includes a lot of techniques featuring explosives of every kind.

The goal can be to distract, confuse, blind, and obviously wound the enemy. Fire, the primary and primordial element man knows ever since his first steps on Earth, joined with black powder, can generate countless events, just like the infinite refractions of light that generate colours.

Even though he wasn’t born knowing those myths of prestigious masters of trickery, that man who’d almost toppled his government learnt as much info as he could to prepare himself for the fight.

So, although he’d been stabbed by that sort of spear, he stood still without bending over. Then he widened his shoulders and stretched his arms to form a U shape over his head.

“What?!” the announcers winced. “Guy Fawkes still stands after that attack! In fact… he’s preparing to do… something!”

Not even Fenrir could predict what attack would come, also because he’d been caught off guard by the man’s vitality. He’d frankly taken him for dead.

One second later Guy Fawkes lowered his arms abruptly, clutching the chain that came out of his chest to press it in between his palms. However, instead of the clap one would have expected to hear, a completely different noise followed: echoing, vibrating, high-pitched, and deep all at once.

An explosion.

Greyish smoke came from the Englishman’s body, where the chain Lœðingr had fallen to his feet.

The Ragnarok Wolf, who hadn’t changed his stoic expression until then, became grim. His eyes were framed by a dark shadow, making his soul more inscrutable, wrapped in darkness.

But, although he was terrorizing gods and humans, most of the attention was on Guy Fawkes.

-Explosion is a noble art… but I am a coward!- His mask perfectly depicted his actual smile, although blood was dripping down his mustache.

-But why does it matter who I really am? History needs an engine that makes it go forward… a fuse to be lit up by someone who isn’t afraid of the explosion that follows… so it’s useless to determine whose hand moved the gear.-

Then he picked up his hat that had fallen off his head due to the hit and put it on his head to frame that blood-stained smile once more.

-Now I’ll show mankind a way a god can be killed… even by a coward like me!-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> See you tomorrow for the next chapter! Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	26. I Have Swallowed That Hope

“Ladies and gentlemen… although Guy Fawkes hasn’t landed his first hit yet, he’s survived Fenrir’s attack and managed to break Lœðingr in two! No one would have ever expected something similar!”

Excitement and thrill filled the air, because now the result of the match had become unpredictable and tumultuous as a sky covered with clouds.

On the battlefield’s barren land not a gust of wind blew, as if nature was bending. And the source of that crushing pressure that smothered the whole environment was Fenrir.

The Ragnarok Wolf’s eyes were unreachable, clouded by a dimension of everlasting dark, as everything around him was being shaken by tension.

“You want to assault me with all your might, don’t you?” Guy Fawkes mocked him, straightening his back and bringing a hand to his face to cover part of his mask.

Then he started moving his limbs and his joints as if his entire body had turned into a restless liquid, like the water of a river. A puppet with tangled strings that fell to the ground and hectically got back up, like a whirlwind, without following any rule or pattern.

Dancing is one of the freest ways for the body and the mind to show their discipline, self-control, confidence, but also devotion, loyalty, and love, in the form of flexibility, timing, and coordination.

Dancing is chaos within order. And Guy Fawkes had started dancing to very chaotic music: the rhythm of his thoughts.

Sedgley glove-guns, used from World War Two up to the Cold War. This mechanism, hidden in a glove, allows the bearer to shoot a bullet upon contact with a body that pulls the trigger. Since it was a weapon used mainly for murder, it has one single bullet.

In the name of his love for modernity, which he’d discussed with Fenrir, he’d chosen that weapon to surprise the public in his exhibition. The boom that had snapped the chain in two made his move look similar to Masutatsu Oyama’s power, instead it was a hidden weapon that was quite useless in any other scenario.

But the goal of ninja arts is tricking the enemy into believing any attack is something absurd and incomprehensible, in order to hit him even more insidiously with techniques they can’t even imagine.

“But I won’t give you the time to counterattack!” he exclaimed, jumping forward.

“ **Drómim**!”

Fenrir’s wrath exploded as he swung another chain in the air, larger than the previous one. But it was too late, because Guy had got too close to him.

Like a giant snake that crashes on the ground, the chain tried to crush the Englishman, cracking the earth under its enormous weight. However, Guy Fawkes was nimble, twirling in between the attacks like an ice skater.

When he finally was in hit range, he pulled out a knife like the ones from earlier, prowling to prepare himself for a jump.

“Guy wants to attempt another knife attack?!” the announcers screamed.

“But earlier we saw they can’t affect Fenrir!” The humans were just as shocked: “Is he crazy?!” 

-Crazy? No…- Guy answered in his thoughts, as he cold-bloodedly lunged his knife to stab his opponent in the chest.

“I prefer the name _visionary genius_!”

“It’s another attack that… shoots. Am I right?” Fenrir’s voice wiped away every thought and every tension of his, making a clean sweep in his mind and leaving only a black space.

Although he’d charged with heat, Guy wavered and stopped.

He felt as if he was a small grain of sand against a giant ice slat. And the enormous iceberg that now engulfed him in its shadow was none other than Fenrir.

He realized too late that the wolf had predicted his every move, but he couldn’t take his hit back anymore.

He pressed a hidden button on the dagger, and the blade was shot away from the handle, expelled by a spring.

A ballistic knife, according to its definition, ejects its blade on a ballistic trajectory. The advantage of this weapon is doubtlessly the unpredictability of its function, along with its might that topples that of any human arm.

This way, Guy Fawkes’s hit would have been more lethal than the previous ones, which were supposed to make the enemy lower his guard. Or at least that’s what he’d been hoping for, until Fenrir revealed himself to be more cautious than he’d thought.

He’d been waiting for it this whole time.

The flying blade was caught into one of Lœðingr’s rings as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

Now that Guy Fawkes was hurled forward, defenseless and unarmed, he was powerless before the threatening iceberg that loomed over him. Fenrir’s hair stood up due to all the accumulated tension in the form of static electricity, as his eyes finally widened in the sun and reflected the light in those crystal mirrors.

“If earlier I couldn’t find a way to assault you… or defend myself… now I remember…” The chain Drómim was lifted over Guy’s head, like a giant arm ready to chop it off like a guillotine.

“Now I remember why those like you don’t deserve pity!” the wolf sentenced, showing for the first time his bare fangs in a feral growl.

“ **Drómim**!”

A boom echoed in the arena, followed by a blood splatter.

“L-Ladies…” Adramelech and St. Peter stuttered, hugging each other in apprehension, mixed to the fear aroused by what they’d seen “...and gentlemen!”

Humans and gods leaned out of the grandstands to better see the battlefield, because they just couldn’t believe their eyes. They thought they’d been tricked.

A replay on the big screens was necessary to get a grip of what had happened:

As soon as Fenrir announced his attack, Guy had moved a tiny part of his body in a barely perceivable instant. It was his index finger, that broke away from the knife’s handle to press on another button, different from the one that had ejected the blade.

That way, something was shot out of a cavity in the handle, at incredibly high speed, faster than the spring-loaded blade and Fenrir’s chain. A golden shell, sharpened to become an aerodynamic and infallible weapon, especially from that distance.

A bullet.

It was a ballistic knife that also had a gun mechanism, just like the glove-gun: an NRS-2 Scout Firing Knife. All of that went far beyond Fenrir’s predictions, making it an attack that was impossible to dodge.

Piercing through the deity’s stomach, that bullet had left behind a spray of blood that had now settled on the ground, like the sketch of a brush on a canvas.

Fenrir’s wide eyes now had a completely different meaning. It wasn’t rage, wrath, fierceness, revenge, but human and excruciating pain.

“You deities are so old, backward-looking… and enemies of progress.” Guy playfully tossed the knife behind his back, then propped a hand on his hip in a comfortable pose.

“Back in your time, in myths and legends… you were invincible beyond any limit and humans couldn’t even dream of hurting you. But do you know what’s the reason?” He stretched his hands forward, as if to show his wounded enemy to the audience.

“It’s because firearms didn’t exist yet! When bullets and cannons were invented… there was no place for gods or fantastic beasts anymore: there’s nothing in the world that can’t be killed by a gunshot!”

The gods’ tribunes were filled with astonished eyes or restrained angry growls.

By all means, the reason for their rage was that Guy Fawkes was right.

Numerous heroes all throughout history challenged the gods or superhuman creatures, fighting with weapons or their bare hands, but none of them had ever been hit by a bullet, so they couldn’t say for sure they’d survive a gunshot.

And now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, Fenrir’s bleeding belly was the proof.

“Father!” Hati and Skǫll yelled out in unison. They’d never seen their father in such a sorry state.

Up until a bunch of seconds earlier, the masked man looked like a fly, easy to crush, but now he was the gods’ boogeyman: someone that had exposed an undeniable weakness of all of them.

“Kids… don’t despair!” Jormungandr hissed in between clenched teeth, visibly agitated. He looked behind his back, where two individuals had come close: “I bet it’s the same thing the two of them came to tell us…”

His eyes grew particularly grim when he saw a god with a face as stoic as his brother’s, but unlike him, he had long red hair and a giant hammer secured to his back.

The god of thunder, Thor, didn’t answer and kept his detached demeanor.

On the contrary, an old man who could make anyone’s tongue go numb with his mighty presence spoke: “Exactly! That wolf… if it took so little to kill him, then I’d have to change my mind on a belief I’ve had for millennia now. The belief… that he’s the strongest in our pantheon.”

Thor, although he remained as expressive as a statue, glanced at his father: “Even stronger than me?”

And Odin, looking at him seriously with his only eye, answered: “Obviously.”

_ He was running. His wolf legs, although short, allowed him to cut through the air at high speed. He darted among glaciers and cliffs, without pause and without looking back. Something suddenly caught his attention, making him lose his breath for an instant. _

_ He slowed down more and more, then proceeding at a slow pace towards that pale tree. As he got closer, his body shapeshifted to take the appearance of a kid with silver hair but still with wolf ears and a tail.  _

_ The young - or better “puppy” - Fenrir walked up to his siblings. Jormungandr had wrapped his short tail around the tree trunk, letting his human body dangle off a branch, while Hel was sitting on a root. _

_ “Did he catch you?” the wolf asked, with utmost seriousness. He received no answer, but before he could grow suspicious, he noticed that a gigantic grin had opened on his siblings’ faces. _

_ Slowly, the two kids melted in a smokey mush, and Fenrir knew it was too late. _

_ “Caught ya!” After dissolving that illusion, a man bopped the wolf’s nose. _

_ Despite the initial surprise, he eventually burst out laughing along with that man, who was no other than his father. Loki, the trickster god, hugged him tight to then playfully mock him. _

_ Soon the other two kids joined them, and seeing Fenrir’s defeat they couldn’t refrain from giggling a bit. _

_ “Gnehehe! Come on, Fenrir, you fell for the oldest trick in the world!” _

_ “Don’t mock him, Jorm. You were the first one to be caught.” Hel reprimanded her brother with a know-it-all attitude, making him grow even angrier. Luckily Fenrir chimed in too: _

_ “Hel, I saw when dad caught you by turning himself in a pile of precious stones.” _

_ The girl blushed with embarrassment, then she shrugged and squeaked: “Ugh! Hope dies last. I’m sure that one day I’ll find precious stones even here in the Jötunheimr and I’ll cover myself with jewelry!” _

_ Jötunheimr was the name of the land they lived in: one of the nine worlds, above Midgard, which was the humans’, and Asgard, that belong to the gods. It was a land of ice and stone where Loki was born, that’s why he’d chosen it to raise his kids. They’d never seen another world except for that one, but their father often told them about his travels and the adventures he’d been on, entertaining them in a universe of fantastic worlds they’d never explore. _

_ The three kids had grown up that way, knowing no one other than their father and a couple of giants. _

_ Jormungandr often challenged the giants, wanting to become as big and strong as them. Fenrir wanted nothing more from the life they led there, while on the contrary, Hel wanted their father to bring them outside the Jötunheimr to visit other worlds. But that was impossible, according to him. _

_ And after a usual day like many others, while the kids were discussing which game to play next, they noticed their father’s face was sad and grey. _

_ “What’s up, dad?” Jormungandr asked, yanking him from a sleeve. He flinched, caught off guard. _

_ After looking at his children with quite sad eyes, he changed his expression in the sweetest of smiles: “I was thinking… it’s time to go.” _

_ “Go?” The kids stared at him, their eyes wide with anticipation. _

_ “Go… to Asgard.” _

_ Asgard: the promised land for the gods of the Norse pantheon, where humans beg to be sent after their death. Only great heroes and gods can boast a place in that palace-city full of luxury, richness, and every other whim, mortal or divine. _

_ Since the announcement up until they set foot in there, Loki’s three children couldn’t hold back their awe. After being sealed away for so much time among ice and giants, that magnificence went far beyond the expectation they had from their father’s stories. Hel was the most excited one: she stopped to analyze every single brick of pure gold and every single rare jewel with shiny eyes. _

_ That awe had to be restrained, upon their father’s suggestion, when they entered the throne room. There, the Father of all Norse gods, Odin, was sitting, looking forward with stoic eyes. _

_ At the foot of his throne, on the stairs that brought to it, there was a young man leaned against a hammer about three times his size. _

_ “Loki. It’s been a long time…” Odin’s cave-like voice echoed in the room. _

_ “what’s up? Did you miss me?” the trickster grinned, but the other continued: _

_ “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you in Asgard. For all this time you were in the Jötunheimr, with the giants… doing who knows what.” _

_ “You know… maybe those guys can make a bad impression if you look at them from high up on your throne, but I assure you they’re not that bad once you’ve liv-” _

_ “Silence!” Odin roared, wiping Loki’s smirk off his face like nothing ever did. The air grew heavy and tense, and the trickster’s kids understood one thing: they didn’t want to be there anymore. _

_ “I summoned you to see your offspring” the Father resumed, then lowering his gaze on the three of them. _

_ “And… the prophecies were correct: they’re monsters. Terrible monsters that, united and raised with a wicked nature, will bring nothing but destruction for us gods.” _

_ The children started trembling upon those words. It wasn’t the accusation that struck them, but Odin’s voice, serious and alarmed. There was an obvious note of concern, as if they really were monsters, as if they really were nothing more than evildoers. _

_ And Loki was silent, his head bowed. _

_ “We’ll take them away from you” the god of gods eventually sentenced. _

_ “The fuck are you saying, you old man?!” Fenrir, Hel, and Loki lifted their heads, astonished. _

_ Jormungandr had bloodshot eyes and bare fangs, the same way he did when he fought to the death with the most dangerous giants. Ready to act, all his muscles tense, he hissed at Odin. _

_ “You’ll never take us away from our father! Never!” _

_ The old man stayed silent for a while, staring into his opponent’s soul. Then he sighed: “Luckily it’s too early for you to be a threat. Thor!” _

_ With a jump as quick as lightning, the god of thunder stood in front of the snake. Simply swinging his gigantic hammer Mjölnir was enough to fling him away, beyond Odin’s throne and out of Asgard. Everyone watched him as he precipitated into an apparently endless abyss, while his terrified scream still echoed throughout the gods’ realm. _

_ Hel brought her hands to her mouth, shocked, while Fenrir couldn’t do anything except gape, his eyes wide. _

_ “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” With immense effort, Loki uttered that question. _

_ “Obviously he’s not dead” he answered. “Thor just sent him to the human realm.” _

_ “That’s not what I asked!” Loki’s calm wavered. “I asked you… if you’re satisfied, now that you took one of my kids from me.” _

_ But Odin’s eye, unstoppable, moved to the only girl, making her flinch and tremble. _

_ The wolf’s heart skipped a beat. _

_ “I’ll admit I was a bit rude to your son, but I reacted like that only because he showed harmful intent. I’m not a murderer, and I believe in second chances: I’ll give your kids the opportunity to redeem themselves and show me they can be good. For example, you, girl… I can grant you the Realm of the Dead as a home.” _

_ Hel stopped shivering, nonetheless tears kept streaming down her face. _

_ “You’ll have a domain, like any other goddess. Humans will respect you, worship you, and you’ll be able to visit the nine worlds if you’ll want to.” _

_ Loki had already brought a hand to his face to conceal the horrendous grimace of hate and disgust he was wearing: “Please… don’t… take her away from me too” he rattled as silently as he could. _

_ Thor’s hand clenched around Mjölnir’s handle: Fenrir saw it, and he went on alert in the most intense and dramatic moment of his life. _

_ “It’s okay, father.” The voice that came out from his mouth was firm and serene, like a loving reassurance. “Becoming a goddess and visiting the nine worlds… has always been Hel’s dream.” _

_ He looked at his sister, and as much as he was striving to pretend, tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. Hel ran to him, hugging him as she sobbed. _

_ Odin relaxed on his throne, and the shadow of a feeble smile appeared on his face. “So it’s decided. As for you… little wolf… you’re loyal, unlike your father, but you’re as sly as him. I’d like to raise you here in Asgard, where you’ll be able to confront yourself with all the gods and all the heroes in history and learn from them. This, in exchange for your loyalty as guardian of the gods.”  _

_ Fenrir didn’t waste a second and nodded. _

_ His thoughts went to his dad: if he really became the guardian of Asgard, he probably wouldn’t be able to ever leave it, but he could keep in touch with Hel and Jormungandr via Loki. In the end, they hadn’t actually lost anything. _

_ He felt like smiling, but actually, a wicked grin was brooding inside him. _

Jormungandr smiled, remembering that crucial moment of his life, which had been described to Hati and Skǫll countless times.

At that moment however, among the Norse gods, Odin came. A second Odin, who stared at the other one that was already there with his severe eye.

“Whoops!” In the blink of an eye, the first Odin was revealed to be Loki. The trickster started twirling and ended up hugging his youngest son’s neck. “However, let’s not get distracted! Something interesting is going on down there…”

Both the contestants on the battlefield were injured pretty seriously, judging from the blood coming from their wounds.

However, it would have been utopic to say they’d surrendered, something impossible and unthinkable.

For the second time, Fenrir’s eyes had changed. Going from calm to rage, he’d finally reached the perfect way to look at his opponent: with concentration and fierceness, like a predator watches the prey they’ve been slyly hunting down. He hadn’t inherited his father Loki’s wits for nothing.

“ **Drómim**!”

The heavy chain was lifted like a dart shot in the sky, drawing an arc in the sky and plunging onto Guy Fawkes. The Englishman had to do an impressive backwards jump to avoid the attack, but with great surprise he noticed the chain hadn’t stopped moving: on the contrary, it took off once again to draw another arc.

He had to dodge them one after the other, backing off as he was being chased by that quick succession of arcs that threatened to crush him.

-One hit is enough to kill me- he cool-mindedly realized as he dodged the deadly blows. He was forced to get away from Fenrir, and he knew he’d soon be stuck with his back against the arena wall.

The realization of being forced to change his path made him chase an impulsive intuition: after calculating the speed at which the chains got off the ground and then fell down, he took advantage of a propitious moment to dodge the hit laterally. He heard a thump behind him, but he was already running towards his opponent.

-You thought you’d cornered me?!- He felt the chain chasing him, but he knew it would have never caught him, just like he knew Fenrir wouldn’t have been able to take it back in time to defend himself.

-Unluckily for you, I’m one step ahead of…!-

“ **Gjöll**!”

Something enormous and strong hit him on the back, piercing through his skin, muscles, and bones and echoing in his lungs so hard it took his breath away. His eyes became hollow for a moment. 

-It wasn’t his chain that hit me…- he realized, as his flesh vibrated like a sounding board.

-This is… a shock wave!-

He couldn’t have seen it, because now he’d left his only threat behind, in a blind spot: a second earlier, the chain Drómim hadn’t repeated its usual cycle; instead, it anchored itself to the ground so firmly it ripped out a clod. Then it crashed it to the ground, and although it missed Guy Fawkes by a couple of inches, the air movement caused by the ginormous size of the hit had been enough to stun him.

That pause was something Fenrir had been waiting for for a long time, which now left him with a sharp, wicked grin on his face.

“ **Lœðingr**!”

From inside the clod attached to the chain, various tendrils came out, made of the thinner chain, Lœðingr.

-Lœðingr was… wrapped around Gjöll to do this attack!- This was what Guy Fawkes managed to think, before he was wrapped, caught, and tied to the clod.

-You… got me…-

The bigger chain started to lift, dragging him away from the ground.

“ **Gjöll**!”

And again it crashed on the ground, so powerfully it made the Valhalla arena quiver.

_ “Guy…” Robert Catesby told him one day, looking him dead in the eye, “one day, we’ll topple this corrupt England.” _

_ What was left of that? _

_ Once the master of spies Cecil had told King James I about their plot, during that dark night tinged white by snow, all their dreams were scattered in the wind. _

_ Horses galloped, bullets darted in the air, among trees, bodies fell to the ground and got swallowed by the darkness. _

_ Robert's mind wouldn’t stop echoing with the sound of those same words: -Guy! Guy! Where are you?!- _

_ A gunshot. Four men. _

_ Their hopes were shattered, and what was left of their plan was a desperate run for safety. Out of thirteen conspirators, only five scared men were left. _

_ Three men. _

_ -Wherever you are… save yourself, please!- _

_ Two men. _

_ He fell from his horse, tumbling to the foot of a mausoleum in the heart of the woods. He dragged himself in the snow, leaving a blood trail behind that almost looked like a noble carpet. _

_ One single man. _

_ -Save England… or save yourself.- _

_ The moonlight came through a crack in the ceiling, along with a whirlwind of snowflakes that danced in the air slowly and sweetly: it all laid on the body of a distended man, cradled in a blood-red puddle and holding a picture of the Virgin. _

_ While all of this was going on, the guards of the Parliament were ordered to inspect the basement. Nonetheless, it was still a heart-pounding surprise for the captain Sir Thomas Knyvett when he found a hooded figure in the dark. _

_ “Who are you?!” he screamed, but that black phantom didn’t move at all, his back turned on him. _

_ This way no one could see that, hidden by his large cape, the man was holding a tiny match. The flame illuminated his body, but not his face, concealed by his large hat. But, most of all, it illuminated part of the gunpowder barrels he had in front of him. _

_ The man chose to smother the flame in his hand with a deep sigh.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> Personally, I feel very proud of this fight. It's really fun to cover Norse mythology, as well as show off some unconventional fighting styles.  
> See you tomorrow for the next chapter! Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	27. Unchained

_**Chapter 27: Unchained** _

_“My only regret is that my plan didn’t work out.”_

_ This was the sentence that struck King James I the most while questioning the conspirator found in the Parliament’s basement. _

_ He’d confessed everything, as if he knew that there was nothing left to lose, that all his friends had been arrested or killed. At the moment of his execution, he’d preferred to jump from the stocks with the noose around his neck to put a quick end to his life. _

_ However…! _

“F-Fenrir…” The announcers’ voices focused everyone’s attention on a detail of the gods’ vanguard that few had noticed. It was small, barely perceivable in all the stir caused by the last attack, but it was enough to baffle everyone.

It was fragments that, like snowflakes, fell from the chain barrier Fenrir had erected over his head as a defense.

“What was it that attacked Fenrir?!” Jormungandr flinched, pronouncing the question everyone was asking themselves.

Apparently, only Fenrir knew the answer, therefore his face grew grim. He was staring at the man who was responsible for all of that, finding him beneath the giant rock he was chained to, which now crushed him against the ground.

Guy Fawkes’s face barely peeped from there, and it was only his mask: a ghastly smile crossed by cracks and blood.

“Oh, you’re mad at me?” In between winces of pain, the man burst out laughing, careless of all the wrath the Ragnarok Wolf was projecting against him. Then he lifted an arm, the only one he could, showing a handgun. 

“You’re too… slow.”

Guy Fawkes had already sensed his opponent’s previous attack, so, although he couldn't react, he’d prepared a weapon. The moment when Fenrir had thrown him in the sky, although he was chained, was enough for him to shoot him from an unpredicted angle.

“But I have to compliment you. Hadn’t you blocked that shot, you’d be dead.” Not caring about his health, he sneeringly talked about his enemy’s life, mocking him.

Fenrir knew those were just taunts.

“What’s up? Are you ignoring me? Mah… not too bad!” But his foe started doing something he wasn’t expecting. He seemed to be shrinking.

“Guy Fawkes is…” St. Peter and Adramelech yelled “...disappearing under the rock!”

They all witnessed the Englishman’s disappearance as he curled up more and more under the rock that was crushing him.

One second passed. Then two.

At the third second, a light ray tore the rock in half, then shattering it and scattering its fragments in the air with a powerful explosion.

Boudicca and Charlotte Corday gaped with astonishment, but Masutatsu Oyama was the most awestruck of all, as the raging flames and the terrifying light fully reflected in his eyes.

Then, there was no way for anyone to follow the events.

What there is to say is, from that explosion, a black dart was ejected at high speed towards Fenrir. It was Guy Fawkes, but his shape had lost every human resemblance, deformed by aerodynamics to become an elongated shape: a spear.

“ **Spear of Gungnir!** ”

And that spear, faster than any bullet ever fired by a human, so fast it could even turn a human body into a weapon, was stopped by a single divine hand.

Fenrir had raised his arm, clawing Guy Fawkes’s mask and blocking his charge. He instantly stopped him, contrasting the inertia to the point where the man seemed to have never moved at all.

The Englishman felt the porcelain shatter under Fenrir’s claws, now belonging to a feral paw, but wiggling was no use.

“That is…” Odin flinched, then turning to Loki and Thor and finding confirmation in their eyes.

“That is my brother’s true strength… the one that was sealed away for all this time” Jormungandr hissed, suddenly feeling like a worthless snake. He, a beast so strong he was almost chosen for the Ragnarok Tournament.

Even Hati and Skǫll started trembling before their own father, as if they’d never seen him before.

And actually, there wasn’t much left of the previous Fenrir. His silver hair, now merged with his face to create the fur that framed his beastly eyes, stood up like spikes. His muscles couldn’t be contained by clothes anymore, so after they ripped through the fabric they looked swollen and crossed by rivers of veins, along with countless scars that marked his entire body.

“It’s his unfettered form… **Unchained**.” Even his father Loki was amazed, with a dazed smile on his lips and his eyes full of tears of emotion.

“You… knew the Ragnarok would bring him to this level of power?” Odin asked, full of anger, to the point even Thor went on alert. But the trickster didn’t even look at him, and proudly watching his son he simply hissed:

“No, that wasn’t my plan. I’ll admit it, I would’ve liked to do it myself… but this is someone else’s work.

While the Norse pantheon was in turmoil because of that last sentence, one of the contestants had started moving again.

It was Fenrir, or more precisely his chains. They all lifted from his neck, leaving it bare: they merged, taking the shape of a giant sword, with its blade towards the sky.

“... **Angrboða** …”

Everyone held their breath.

“You know… it’d be best for me if I surrendered now.”

In that moment of calm before the storm, Guy Fawkes broke the silence. His voice was barely a whisper, so that only Fenrir could hear him.

“If I gave up, my life would be safe, and nothing would keep me from blowing up all of you gods with my Weapon while you’re busy with the next match.”

The cracks on his mask kept growing, making the porcelain creak and suffer.

“But that’s not what I’d want!” The lower piece fell off, revealing a smug smile. “Because, if I surrendered with words and not with actions, I wouldn’t be coherent! On the contrary, I firmly believe a man has to do what he says: taking the initiative means swearing to carry out an action to the very end, at the cost of life!”

The Ragnarok Wolf’s eyes were wide, and he was unable to react.

“And I swore to win this battle at any cost! I can’t take it back just because you’re much stronger and scarier than me!”

That man on the verge of defeat, pathetic and near death, managed in some way to give out an aura of honour and bravery that eclipsed the deity’s threat.

That aura had reached mankind’s grandstands, filling the humans’ hearts and eyes with tears without them even knowing why.

“This is…” Especially the playwright William Shakespeare had stopped quivering with rage, revealing his true feelings with an emotional cry.

“This is what fighting truly means! All my life I cleaned my image, appeasing the noblemen and the potent… while he, a man like me… instead of bending, he fought until the end!”

His words inspired everyone around him, giving birth to an encouraging roar that incited Guy Fawkes to keep his promise. No one saw him as a loser, but as someone who, like Mas Oyama, Vlad, and Dante, could turn the situation around at any moment.

Nonetheless, a figure kept watching the scene with skepticism: it was the master of spies Robert Cecil.

_ History tells that, when Guy Fawkes was arrested, he resisted questionings and tortures in every way, leaving a single phrase as testimony for King James I: _

_ “My only regret is that my plan didn’t work out!” _

_ And after strenuous resistance, he gave up and revealed the names of the other living conspirators. _

_ However… none of that was true! _

_ And the master of spies knew it better than everybody else. After all, he’d been the one to receive a shadow in the night that warned him about the incoming conspiracy. _

_ It wasn’t one of his spies, though. _

_ “Are you turning yourself in, maybe?” the lord asked the caped figure, before it revealed his face. _

_ It was Guy Fawkes, with the same face that would be then depicted on masks. _

_ “Not at all. The plan will be executed by me, according to plan.” _

_ Cecil spoke his mind: “Are you crazy? A man with such a plan could topple England if he carried it out, and get exactly what he wants. You’d stop the plague that afflicts your people, you’d become a hero! What’s stopping you from…?” _

_ “I don’t want to stop anything” the man answered, before disappearing into the dark. _

_ “That’s why I’ll surrender. But I know in my heart this surrender of mine will bring something grand… and one day, someone else will win this war for me. Like in gambling, there’s nothing wrong with giving up if you think your opponent won’t win anyway.” _

Perhaps even Fenrir, in the arena, was impressed by that same determination?

Not at all.

“You noticed, huh?” Guy Fawkes’s smile suddenly turned into a sharp, smug, and dishonorable smile.

The Wolf started muttering, giving voice to his thoughts: “You just said… you could blow up the gods with your Weapon. You weren’t talking about those things you hurt me with.”

-What could it be?- If death wouldn’t stop Guy’s plan, then killing him would be useless. Fenrir’s mind was processing information at a speed higher than any human brain could ever reach to understand just what was endangering the gods.

Although it was him who was gripping the enemy’s throat, he felt Death’s scythe against his neck.

-I can’t fail!-

For his attacks, Guy had only used mysterious objects that gave him the same ability as a Weapon, for example the ability to break his chain and wound him.

The only different detail was the latest attack: Spear of Gungnir.

-It was a propulsion caused by an explosion that broke my Gjöll. But… why didn’t he use it earlier to free himself? He chose to shoot me, even though he knew I’d parry the bullet. Was he waiting… for the right moment?-

“Time’s up!”

When Guy lit the match no one saw him take out, at that exact moment, it all became crystal clear in the wolf’s mind.

He remembered what he’d read on his opponent’s dossier, when he first came to know what gunpowder was. He was surprised when he discovered just how many different ways there were to blow things up.

An object could catch fire. A liquid could catch fire. Even the air, if saturated with particles of an ignitable substance, could explode.

When, earlier, Guy made Gjöll explode, he’d chosen to curl up under the rock: under there, the flammable air was so little it didn’t raise suspicions, so he only had to light up a match, without anyone noticing.

-But when was the air saturated?- Fenrir wondered, while the world outside of his conscience became bright and incandescent.

He came to an answer too late: when Guy took the field, he was surrounded by smoke that quickly dissolved in the air.

The Valhalla Arena was encapsulated in a force field that forbade every contact between the inside and the outside. This way, the gas couldn’t fully dissolve, and lingered on the battlefield instead. So now that Guy had decided to play the cards in his hand, lighting up a match was enough to ignite the surrounding atmosphere.

It all became bright. Such an explosion couldn’t be contained by the magic field that protected the grandstands, and it shook the entire colosseum. 

Gods and humans trembled, prey to a might that had never been seen before.

St. Peter and Adramelech were thrown backwards, along with their microphones, as they screamed: “Ladies and gentlemen, please, hold on tight!”

When the boom stopped echoing in everybody’s ears, the only thing that could be heard for a couple of seconds was a faraway whistle. Then, the audience's eyes got used to the normal light, and everyone was dying to know what was left of the battlefield.

Surprisingly enough, all they saw was a black dome. The dense smoke barely gave a glimpse of the fire that was raging underneath, in a hidden hell.

When the announcers went back to their posts, they almost fell again with fright:

“The temperature inside the dome is impossible to bear for any living creature! We absolutely have to intervene!”

What was happening was undoubtedly the most incredible event to ever be seen since the beginning of the tournament. But what the public would never come to know was a more important affair that touched the fragile strings of human and divine life.

_ It happened at the end of the seventh bout: _

_ Mother Earth’s eyes observed the arena without showing any emotion. All about her was drowned in dense and thick mud, all of her goodness and fear too. _

_ “You really had the nerve to talk to me like that…” She turned around, suddenly lighting her eyes on fire with an unnerving glow. _

_ “And all of you, too… you’ll pay for it!” _

_ But the titan she was talking to, Prometheus, didn’t bat an eye in front of her aura of intense dangerousness. Beside him, all the gathered deities stuck together to stay strong and resist: there was his brother Epimetheus, Phobetor, Nyx, Erebus, and Zeus from the Greek pantheon, along with Father Odin and his strongest son Thor, and also Ammit with Ptah. _

_ Ten deities, counting one of the organizer gods and in charge of the Divine Council, were ready to face Gaea’s wrath. _

_ Prometheus clenched his fists: “You’re going to pay, you damned double-crosser!” _

_ “Do not dare step closer!” Two figures came in defense of the Titaness. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome!  
> What's happening at the end, between Gaia and the other deities?  
> The fight will continue, but the balance trembles!  
> See you tomorrow for the next chapter! Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	28. I Have Swallowed That Hope (Final)

**Chapter 28: I Have Swallowed That Hope (Final)**

The inside of the dome was cleared of all the smoke and the flames through some kind of spell. Now everyone could soothe their concern by discovering what had happened on the battlefield. 

What they found was a completely transformed territory: the soil was cracked, loose, and bumpy, as if it was torn into pieces and then chaotically put back together. The plateau had been replaced by grotesque cliffs and precipices that delimited a chasm where the ground had turned black and exhaled grey smoke.

“L-Ladies and gentlemen… Fenrir is…”

That ash moved, like a blanket under which a body was wiggling.

“He’s still alive!”

The Ragnarok Wolf got up from his bed of demise, coughing up blood and still trembling because of the blow he’d received. His fur, once silver, had turned dark red due to the tremendous wounds he’d got, and in some places his flesh was charred and smoldering.

Blind in one eye and made almost completely deaf by the explosion, he realized if he didn’t shift into his Unchained form in time, he wouldn’t survive another similar attack.

“A-And also…”

“I hope you liked my attack! Oh, you didn’t? Damn, I really can’t manage to make you smile today.” 

“Guy Fawkes! He’s alive too!” the announcers belted out, pointing out the Englishman’s appearance, still caped and harnessed, and still with his beloved hat which he’d just put on his head.

The knowledge that the match wasn’t over yet, despite what had happened, made every spectator realize the creatures inside the arena were the strongest to ever exist, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

But unfortunately, like two extremely bright stars, one is deemed to outshine the other in the sky.

“Even if you only came to it at the last second… congratulations for correctly guessing what my true Weapon is, from the Sephirot  ** Hod ** , Glory:  ** Gunpowder Misery ** , the secret ingredient for my god-killer recipe!”

As he spoke, Fenrir noticed a disturbing detail: there was very little left of Guy Fawkes’s face, partially hidden by the hat.

“Oh? This?” When he noticed, the man bent what seemed to be his mouth in a smile: “It was a small price to pay! You know, my suit is fireproof and can withstand any explosion, and my mask was too… but it broke. What can I do?”

And he burst out laughing, exalted, as he stepped towards the Wolf.

“I’m afraid we’ve come to the final chapter of our story, so…” He drew a shotgun from his coat “This is the time for goodbyes.”

Initially, he didn’t even realize it, because there had been no pain, just a feeling of lightness on his arm. But when he heard a thud at his feet, he couldn’t refrain from looking down, and he recognized his own hand, holding the firearm.

It was there, cut at the wrist, which now was bleeding from a perfectly clear cut.

“What…?”

Mankind’s tribune had a lump in their throats due to the surprise: they couldn't process what was going on, as if it was an illusion.

But it was all true: true like the pain that had now got to Guy, and true like the fatigued grin that was spreading on Fenrir’s lips.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to play dirty” the Wolf murmured, finally showing the universe a smile like he’d never done before.

“In the smoke from the explosion, preparing my attack was easy… so it’s yourself you'll have to thank if you lose!” His sharp teeth and his cold, delighted eyes shone with fierceness: “This is MY goodbye...  ** Gleipnir ** !”

“Gleipnir?!” Fenrir’s children, Hati and Skǫll, winced along with most deities.

“B-But we thought that was the chain dad always wore around his neck, the one that got snapped earlier…”

“That’s not it” Odin solemnly said. “The actual Gleipnir… the one that sealed away Fenrir’s strength for millennia… is thinner than a hair.” 

Jormungandr widened his eyes in surprise: “A hair?!”

But the Great Father was already observing the arena, and thanks to his eye that could see all, he’d already guessed the cruel strategy the Ragnarok Wolf had planned.

The whole battlefield was crossed by Gleipnir, the strongest and thinnest chain in creation: it was hooked on every cliff, on the ground, even on the arena walls. It formed an invisible web which not only surrounded Guy Fawkes, but also didn’t leave out any place where he would be safe.

“From what I could see until now…” the Wolf started off: “Gods and humans are alike in death. They both bleed, fall, and find a certain glory at that moment… the honour of dying in this tournament, fighting for the pride of their kind. But…!”

His teeth clenched in a wild grin, deforming his facial features and letting all of his fierceness and threatening might seep through:

“Actually there’s nothing when we die! There’s no glory after death, no message to be forwarded, and there’s nothing beautiful about a life that ends! That’s why I don’t want to die: I don’t want to be nothing! I don’t want to disappear into oblivion!”

That speech left everyone in the audience dumbfounded, letting them in on a truth that only those who fought in that arena could comprehend: the true meaning of life and death.

Guy, as an answer, grabbed the bleeding stump with his only hand and, his head bowed, said: “Oh, so you’d leave  _ me _ the burden of being nothing? Well, at least you’re not considering the possibility that I give up, which shows your respect for me… thank you.”

But when he raised his head, the expression on his face wasn’t as compassionate as his words. His deformed face showed something similar to a smug grimace, mixed with rage and pure madness.

“Thanks a lot, huh! Asshole!” he screamed with contempt, and the duel resumed.

As his first move, the Englishman raised his stump in the air, drawing an arc with the blood drops sprayed from it. Then he crouched to the ground and ran.

“Wh-What’s Guy Fawkes doing?!” the announcers wondered as they watched mankind’s vanguard dance on the battlefield, running from one spot to another on a path that seemed casual and very complex.

But the most important detail was that before moving he always sprayed blood from his wound.

“He’s using… blood?!” Even the master of spies Lord Cecil was gaping with awe.

As much as the thread was thin and invisible, a blood drop would still be caught in it. That’s why, at dawn, even the thinnest webs are visible because of dew.

In an extreme and apparently inescapable situation, Guy Fawkes had adapted to his enemy's technique, taking advantage of his impairment to find the path that would bring him to victory.

-Then why…?-

He ran, avoiding death as if it were an obstacle course, and finally arrived in front of his foe.

-Why…?- 

They were standing in front of each other, and while the Wolf had no more chains to defend himself, he could still count on another shotgun in his intact hand.

-Why?! Why are you looking at me with those icy eyes again?!-

The tension suddenly soared for Guy Fawkes, reaching its highest and craziest point. He felt every muscle, every fiber, every cell of his tremble with worry.

He was in danger.

He could see his eyes, mortified by anxiety, reflected into Fenrir’s, who’d now gone back to his usual pose, relaxed but insuperable at the same time.

He didn’t see it. No one could, except for Odin.

Something broke away from Fenrir’s body: it was a thread made of his very essence, light, thin, which whipped the air and then divided into several rays, like a blooming flower.

“ ** Gleipnir! ** ”

Guy Fawkes’s skin and suit started being decorated by small cuts that grew and grew like cracks.

And that was when the Norse Father understood: that chain used to imprison and seal away Fenrir’s strength had become one with his body and was absorbed by his flesh.

The true nature of his Unchained form was freeing himself of Gleipnir and being able to control it.

At that moment Skǫll, Hati, and Jormungandr tensed up, while Loki widened his subtle smile.

-I can’t give up…!-

Before the flurry of threads chopped him up, Guy felt a swirl of strength and hope build up in his heart.

Tears flowed from the corners of his eyes, on an unrecognizable and burnt skin.

Several slashes tore his skin, chopping off one of his legs, then an ear, and in the end he felt something tighten around his armed arm.

-I can’t give up!- he screamed out in his mind, lifting that arm and managing to pull the trigger before it got amputated.

The boom from the gunshot didn’t even resonate in the air.

The bullet covered the short distance between him and Fenrir, and hit him: it met his fist, which he’d thrown so quickly it fully collided with it.

The bullet managed to partly pierce through his flesh, but then the impact with the bone was enough to absorb the blow, and the speed of Fenrir’s arm was able to shoot it back with triplicated power.

The Britishman couldn’t even fathom what had happened, it had all unravelled too fast.

He noticed his plan had failed only when his own bullet hit him in the chest, letting out blood splatters all around him.

-But are you… sure… I’ve given up, Ragnarok Wolf?-

He didn’t waver and did not fall. His vital liquid was spraying in the air, falling onto the mortal and invisible trap he’d been dreading until then.

Red drops fell on Gleipnir, as if they were floating mid-air like crimson stars in the sky.

-Then… you didn’t understand anything at all about me…-

Once again, from a completely unpredicted situation, the man was able to seize the right moment to adapt and not drown into oblivion. For the last time, his brain had fought with all its strength and come up with a strategy, even at that moment, so close to the word “defeat”.

-I CAN’T LOSE!-

Masutatsu Oyama, who’d watched the match for the whole time, felt a shiver down his spine.

“In the air…” He felt it tremble, just like his hand was trembling when he looked at it. “...this feeling!”

All of mankind felt it, to the point where they couldn’t sit still anymore. They had to stand up, shaken by a vibration that came from inside them and that soon made them scream.

And Fenrir, so close to the source of all that energy, was overwhelmed, flooded, seized.

It was a wave, heat, an unstoppable force. And, once again, it was light.

Meanwhile, Guy Fawkes was shining with that intense light, unleashed not by a mechanism or by a modern weapon, but from the inside of his body.

-To live or to die… these words concretely have nothing in common with victory.-

His black clothes couldn’t contain the brightness he was shining with. Particularly, the thermal energy was concentrating in the lower part of his body, becoming more and more blinding.

-There are people who live their lives without amounting to anything, and who die dissatisfied. There are people who are happy with what they do until the end, and terminate their lives with a smile on their face. Then…-

The path through Gleipnir was clear.

-Then…-

Guy Fawkes’s entire body blew up, starting from the legs, which served as a propellant to shoot him towards Fenrir at the speed of a supernova.

“ ** Farewell and Godspeed! ** ”

-...THEN WHAT’S WRONG WITH WINNING AT ALL COSTS?!-

The Ragnarok Wolf widened his eyes, becoming minuscule in front of such a scorching light, of such heat, of such inconsiderate madness.

It was the most powerful bomb humanity had ever seen.

A perfect combination of omnipotence, ruthlessness, and cruelty. Because, when man created explosives, he didn’t do it for honour, but to get rid of his enemy in the most horrible way ever conceived. Centuries and centuries of evolution brought to the improvement of these devices, to the point where every man with enough money could afford to threaten the Earth as a whole.

As the ground quaked, the magical barrier of the Ragnarok arena finally shattered, and so the sky too could be invaded by that column of fire and black smoke, and all the gods felt scared.

They looked at humans not as nuisances like they did before, as if they were harmless ants, but as a species who’d outdone them in a field they’d never known.

“Evil” uttered a voice that no one had ever heard.

It belonged to a mass of cosmic disorder, the root of everything and nothing: Chaos, the silent member of the Divine Council. For the first time in his life, which had never begun and would never end, he spoke to acknowledge something humanity had excelled in.

And it was no one else’s fault but theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> Let me know what you think about the (I suppose) unexpected ending!  
> Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	29. Sine Die, Sine Deo

**Chapter 29: Sine Die, Sine Deo**

The Weapon derived from the Sephirot Hod was able to turn into something beyond any expectation, be it divine or human.

When the smoke cleared, the ground was still shaking, and the air was saturated with an echo, or a haunting buzz. First of all, they made sure the spectators were safe, and although the lower tribunes were almost swallowed by dirt, no one was hurt.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” St. Peter and Adramelech couldn’t process what had happened, so they kept stuttering: “The barrier around the battlefield was shattered… b-but… we’ll build a new one!”

No one seemed to care about that detail: everyone’s eyes were on the arena, or what was left of it after the tremendous explosion.

The chancellors gulped to moisten their throats and went back to their usual heat:

“So…! What will the results of this seventh bout be?!”

This was the most important question. The survival of the human race, as well as the gods’ pride, depended on the words that would now be spoken.

Charlotte Corday clung to Boudicca’s arm, muttering through her teeth: “Come on… Come on… _Monsieur_ Fawkes!”

Shakespeare and Lord Cecil, too, were solemnly waiting with dread, along with - surprisingly - the same guards who’d arrested Guy Fawkes. Although the man had gained a horrendous reputation at the time, in that quick fight he’d revealed himself to be so brave and devout to mankind’s survival that he’d given it his all.

On the other side, two children were shivering with worry, waiting to see their father emerge from the ash. They were Hati and Skǫll, who, hugged to their uncle Jormungandr, shared his same excruciating apprehension.

“There’s something!” the announcers yelled, making the whole audience stand at attention.

For the first time, it was possible to spot a figure in the black crater. He was lying with his back against a slightly lifted stone slate which looked like a gravestone, his body heavy like a cloth drenched with blood that drips red drops, and he emanated smoke from his burnt flesh.

“Dad…” the Ragnarok Wolf’s children whispered. The first tears fell from Jormungandr’s snake eyes.

The Wolf’s body was partially intact, maybe thanks to his Chainless form, but he looked like a hollow shell of the powerful beast he once was. Fragments of his body broke away from him like leaves from a tree in autumn, falling apart and flying in the air, dragged by a nonexistent wind that smelled like absolute nothingness.

“The NIfhel…” Odin murmured, and then Thor coldly continued: “Where the souls who die here in the Ragnarok go…”

There was nothing left of Guy Fawkes, as he’d dissolved to turn into the spear that had stabbed the Wolf, killing him. A double-edged sword, but it avoided the umpteenth total defeat.

“It’s…” Adramelech’s and St.Peter’s voices shook again, shocked by that unexpected result: “It’s a tie!”

Uncertain emotion pervaded the air, because of that double-sided victory that didn’t really feel like it. The bittersweet taste of the tears cried for a martyr couldn’t fill up the void left by a father, a brother, a role model.

The Great Father Odin looked at Fenrir’s body as it dissolved, and for the first time his eye didn’t seem apathetic: “You did your job excellently for all this time. At least you didn’t lose…”

And that was the phrase that aroused the Serpent of the World’s wrath. He assaulted him with all his colossal might. All that Odin could see was a glow in his sharp pupils, then a glint of fangs and claws.

The god of thunder Thor had interrupted Jormungandr’s charge, but not before the beast had carved a several foot long groove in the grandstands, running over every god on his path. The Great Norse Father could see him now, mere inches away from his face, contorted with pain and suffering. He didn’t look so threatening now.

“Excellent job?! What are you talking about?! He’s dead, and there’s nothing waiting for him! Not even… not even a hug from our sister Hel!”

“Hel…” Thor repeated, careless about the immense effort it was taking him to hold back Jormungandr.

“Yes! Hel, our sister…”

“Hel” he said, now more strongly, and the snake noticed he was looking at the arena. Odin did the same, and his only eye suddenly widened.

It was something that had gone unnoticed for all that time, although it had been under everybody’s noses since the beginning of the bout. He’d survived every kind of element and two massive, incredibly destructive explosions.

That was why there was the strength of three different chains engraved in that cocoon Fenrir wore on his back: elastic Lœðingr, heavy Drómim, and unbreakable Gleipnir.

And now that Fenrir’s death had come, now that his strength was dissolving into oblivion, the seals had been broken to unleash a power everyone was sensing.

It was a song with no music nor words, or a picture for the blind. It was unhearable, ineffable, incomprehensible, but it was there and it was making the air vibrate more intensely than ever. It was as if creation itself had been waiting for this moment and was now bowing to welcome him with the loudest fanfare.

The sky above the colosseum was covered with black clouds as big as the universe, but something in that tumultuous darkness shone and moved. They were a lot, countless: shooting stars.

Small, resembling snowflakes, they painted the dark a shiny white and fell on the battlefield where too much blood had been spilt.

Only a cape covered the woman who was now floating mid-air, above her own reflection in blood: a white side and a black side, just like her split hair that fell on her face, partly masked by a golden tiara around her eyes. A bone crown decorated her head, making drops of black blood fall on her mask, then on her cheeks, and finally on her chest, where a vortex carved her flesh.

The goddess, who’d made her appearance on the first and last night of that tournament, was as scary as graceful and sweet, surrounded by that mantle of shiny dust.

“Hel…” Jormungandr recognized her, but his surprise didn’t end there: his sister spoke.

“I’m afraid a wrong result was announced.” Her voice, so firm, echoed so that no one could ignore her, deeply making its way into everybody’s hearts.

The air seemed to grow colder and tighten around the hearts of the less courageous, but making the brave flinch.

Adramelech and St. Peter would’ve intervened if something didn’t move in the arena.

At first, it looked like an illusion, a trick, a low blow landed by tiredness and tension. But that something kept on moving: it got off the ground with slow but determined movements.

_ Something _ was a wounded and bloody body, but intact and alive: Fenrir’s only eye didn't shine anymore, a sign that it had turned blind too, but it glowed with a sinister light.

“I could smell it from a mile away…” Loki admitted, father of those two who’d now stolen the scene. As proof of what he just said, the trickster god hadn’t shed a tear nor moved a finger since his son’s death.

Presumed death, it seemed.

“Fenrir is…” the demonic announcer stuttered, while the angelic one grabbed the microphone and screamed: “...aliveee?!”

How was that possible? The world seemed to dance in Hel’s palm: a show organized by her to involve and shock the audience with unexpected emotions.

The goddess of death smiled with both sides of her face.

_ “You’ll have a domain, like any other goddess. Humans will respect you, worship you, and you’ll be able to visit the nine worlds if you’ll want to.” _

_ With those words, Odin, the Father of Norse Gods, had taken her away from her father and her brothers and brought her to the afterlife. The obscure Nifheim was one of the most ancient worlds to be created, where all the dead went to since the dawn of time. _

_ In that underground world that no god ever wanted to see there were just souls of men and women. When she first arrived, as she walked shivering with fear, she wondered why all men weren’t sent to feast in the Valhalla after death, like the ones she’d seen in Asgard. She learnt the answer, sadly, by listening to what the souls segregated there had to say, forced to walk among ice and darkness. _

_ She heard miserable life stories, disabled men who couldn’t fight, executed murderers, parents who’d preferred to feed their children rather than go to war, people who died of disease or old age: they damned their lives and resented every action they’d ever done that brought them there. _

_ The Niflheim was also called “The Land of the Dishonoured Dead”, that’s to say the place for the souls of those who hadn’t been heroes in life, or worthy of admiration from the gods. _

_ When Hel thought the pain was enough, she saw them: the children. _

_ They were small, frail creatures that cried and screamed, condemned to suffer for eternity without being able to know sunlight, because they’d died in the cradle. _

_ She picked up one, staining her arms with blood. She, born with a deformed face that disgusted even the horrible giants, who didn’t know love except for the one from her family that had always accepted her. The baby calmed down in her arms, and they both stopped crying. _

_ It was a little less cold now, in the afterlife. _

_ She laid it back on the ground and went on on her path without looking at any souls anymore.  _

_ She shivered with fear at the sight of the mastiff Garmr that guarded the mansion of her new reign, where she’d live: Eljudnir, the House of Death. _

_ “Look who we have here!” a male voice greeted her, and then a female one: “The monster Odin sent us!” _

_ Those two figures, dressed in black with decorations of bones and skulls, surrounded her immediately. _

_ “If he sent you down here, it means he really wants no one to see you!” Ganglati, servant of death and assigned to that reign, laughed coarsely.  _

_ Hel, scared by their malevolent faces, backed off like a small endangered animal. _

_ “I get it… just look at her face!” When Ganglot grazed with her nails the deformed side of Loki’s daughter, she flinched, making the two of them laugh. _

_ “W-Who are you? I-I was sent here by the Great Father Odin to rule this realm!” the small girl murmured as she trembled, backing off until she felt her back pressed against a wall. _

_ At that point she couldn’t look away from the threatening faces of the two figures who’d cornered her, grimly smiling. _

_ “Listen to her! She doesn’t understand yet…” _

_ “No, she’s a naive, gullible dumbass! She doesn’t understand anything…” _

_ Hel burst out in a desperate scream: “Understand what?!” But her voice soon died in her throat, cutting her off. _

_ She was stabbed at the same time by two daggers, making black blood flow from under her grey dress. Her face, already pale, became gaunt and almost see-through, while her eyes welled up with tears. _

_ “She doesn’t understand…” the two servants laughed, “that it was all just an excuse to get rid of her!” _

_ The girl’s body fell to the ground, or better, in the pool of her own blood. _

_ “Maybe she got it now!” Ganglati and Ganglot’s laughs filled the air and echoed in that dark cranny. It was the only thing her ears could hear on the verge of death. _

_ She didn’t feel the pain from her wounds, nor the shame for having been tricked. All she felt was a great feeling of void, right there where she’d been stabbed: she lacked the happiness she’d known with people who loved her, although she’d lived like a taboo. _

_ -Father… Jorm… Fenrir… goodbye.- _

_ “Our story doesn’t have to end like this.” _

_ That voice was light inside the giant, dense and thick darkness Hel was diving into. Motionless, she couldn’t do anything but turn to that light. _

_ “Our… story?” The words thoughtlessly came out. _

_ “The story of us gods. So powerful, invincible, we’re able to shake our destiny as well as that of the men who serve us, worship us and fear us. We surely can’t afford to disappear into thin air.” _

_ When the light grew in intensity, she understood the source had got closer to her. It was a bonfire, with dancing flames. _

_ “The Sun is Fire. And when the Sun sets for gods, it’ll be the end for them. For all of them, at the same time. The extinction of a single light can cause all of this: the collapse of the most powerful energies in creation. As much as they can stick together, they have one weakness. Do you know what that is?” _

_ While the voice spoke, Hel looked into the fire and saw the existence of two types of creatures: god and man. _

_ Gods who despise and step on men, gods who acknowledge men as similar to them, men who curse the gods, men who fear them. Gods who kill men and men who kill gods. _

_ It seemed fiction, like the made-up stories her father used to tell her, but there was something extremely important she couldn’t grasp. It wasn’t fiction, it was history. _

_ The story of the past, the present, and… _

_ “The future. The greatest weakness of the gods is that they can’t control the future, and they can’t prevent their own extinction. Like everything in nature, there’s a cycle that inevitably ends with… death.” _

_ A hug of black mud tightened around Hel, showing the smile of a feminine face. _

_ “And you, Hel, do you want to control death? The death… of the gods?” _

_ The Record of Ragnarok, that shining flame full of an undeniable truth, glowed more intensely than a sun that would never set. _

“It was you who gave Hel all this power!”

The door to the most inaccessible room flung open, and so the Titan Prometheus obtained the same view as Gaea, there on her special tribune.

Mother Earth slightly turned her head, recognizing with the tail of her eye that arrogant titan who’d won the fourth bout.

“The Record of Ragnarok, the flame of knowledge!” he continued. “Hel shouldn’t have become a goddess, but nonetheless you… you showed her the possibility of taking her revenge on all the gods!”

“And so you brought the Ragnarok… the Downfall of the Gods.” The Great Father Odin, too, followed by his son Thor, made his entrance.

“That prophecy she shouldn’t have known” Zeus concluded, the mightiest god in the Greek pantheon.

Gaea stayed silent for a bunch of seconds, reflectively.

“Assuming I actually told Hel about this prophecy, allowing her to use her dormant powers against other gods… why are you blaming me for the Ragnarok? I didn’t ask for it.”

“Apparently not!” two voices exclaimed together, belonging to someone all the gods had come to know during that tournament.

Phobetor and Ammit, with Nyx, Erebus, and Ptah backing them up, declared: “But we know the one who clearly requested this bout… and even if the main intention was to save mankind from extinction, the real goal seems to be the same: destroy the gods!”

Finally, all the gods’ eyes were drawn to the cornered orchestrator.

“You’re just a traitor!”

Mother Earth’s eyes observed the arena without showing any emotion. All about her was drowned in dense and thick mud, all of her goodness and fear too.

“You really had the nerve to talk to me like that…” She turned around, suddenly lighting her eyes on fire with an unnerving glow.

“And all of you, too… you’ll pay for it!”

But the titan she was talking to, Prometheus, didn’t bat an eye in front of her aura of intense dangerousness. Beside him, all the gathered deities stuck together to stay strong and resist: there was his brother Epimetheus, Phobetor, Nyx, Erebus, and Zeus from the Greek pantheon, along with Father Odin and his strongest son Thor, and also Ammit with Ptah.

Ten deities, counting one of the organizer gods and in charge of the Divine Council, were ready to face Gaea’s wrath.

Prometheus clenched his fists: “You’re going to pay, you damned double-crosser!”

“Do not dare step closer!” 

Two figures plunged in front of Gaea’s throne, stepping between her and the group of gods ready to punish her.

The first to step forward was a giant man, who could make even Prometheus go pale. He wore a steel armour, harnessed and decorated by a long blue cape. Their head was covered by a helm, girded by a golden crown that was part of the armour.

Although they were in a defensive or fighting pose, they didn’t unsheathe their sword: rather, they put their hand on the handle, ready to unsheathe it at any moment.

The god of thunder Thor would’ve usually jumped forward in front of such a blunt invitation to fight. However, since the moment that knight had threatened to take out his sword, a heavy pressure had nailed him to the ground.

“That weapon… it doesn’t come from a Sephirot, but it still can kill a god” he declared, warning the others.

“Rest, Arthur… I don’t think we need to fight.” The second figure talked to the knight with a relaxed, almost playful tone.

It was a young man wrapped in a colourful cape - lilac, light blue, white - with a soft fur around his neck, where his hair also ended, long and thin like clouds.

In his amethyst eyes, there was the reflection of the ten deities that now wanted him dead.

“You…!” Prometheus roared, recognizing him.

“You, you… who the hell are you?” Initially worried, Erebus seemed to be confused as to who he had in front of him.

Luckily his sister Nyx promptly answered: “He’s the idiot who proposed this tournament!”

“Ohoh… forgive this poor old man, but I still don’t understand who he is” Zeus giggled, blushing with embarrassment.

“Yeah…” Ptah frowned, crossing her arms. “Tell us who you are! The time of mysterious gods is over!”

Odin skeptically looked at her: “Who tells you he’s a god, and not a demon?”

“Bingo!”

Baal’s unexpected appearance, another president of the Divine Council, surprised everyone with no exceptions. The Lord of demons, staggering with his weird oscillating pace, entered the room and leaned on a wall.

He clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes: “He’s Merlin, son of a mighty demon who created him to destroy the Divine Council.”

Everyone was shocked except for the armoured knight and Gaea, who didn’t budge.

“Aaw! You’re flattering me!” the demigod flaunted, scratching his neck with a dumb smile on his face.

“All this time you pretended to be enemies… when you actually had the same goal…” Ptah growled, clenching her fists.

Mother Earth at that point contorted her face in a chilling grin, similar to a drawing in the mud: “Our goal? That’s not our goal… it’s the end you’re all doomed to! It’s an unavoidable prophecy, your fate, and the Record of Ragnarok was merely the ultimatum all long.”

“But you all were too scared to admit it” Merlin concluded, with a snakey smile: “That’s why you always considered the idea of annihilating humans, the ones who would one day dethrone you.”

The tension was at its highest, it seemed like the air itself could light itself on fire. The true final battle could’ve taken place right, there, right then.

“B-But what’s going on, ladies and gentlemen?!” The announcers’ screams interrupted everything, drawing attention to a surprising event.

Only a few could follow her movements.

That figure had moved so quickly it looked like a blurred image, bolting down from the grandstands in the arena and leaving a deep groove behind her. That twirl. that bolt, that fury all crashed onto Hel.

The goddess of death tasted a clear vision of the punch that had been thrown to her, as if time had frozen: she saw those fingers and those knuckles, hardened and clenched, marked by scars, and she saw the red hair that flew behind the head on the woman she had in front of her.

And most clearly of all she saw her face: it was contracted with grief, turned into rage through the tears that wet her cheeks and her teeth clenched in an expression of violent fieriness.

“YOU DAMN…”

Boudicca’s fist collided with Hel’s face, generating such a powerful shock wave that it almost threw the spectators out of their seats.

“...WHORE!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Sorry for this late upload, but now that the fifth canon fight in RoR has endend, I felt encouraged to continue this story!  
> Hope you'll like this cat-fight!  
> Join the official discord server for updates: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	30. True Beauty

_**Chapter 30: True Beauty** _

_Change in history isn’t made by average people, with no virtue, no determination, or no strength. That’s why, when that woman was born in the British tribe of the Iceni, everyone knew great change was to come._

_ Something the isolated tribe couldn’t know - genetics - played an important role: _

_ Ever since she was a child, the girl had an impressive muscular versatility, which made her able to overpower even the most expert fighters in her tribe. However, she was also subject to chronic fatigue, and she often fell unconscious even during normal walks. _

_ To this day, we can say with certainty that man only uses about thirty to forty percent of his muscles, and even a perfectly trained athlete can’t use more than eighty percent. _

_ This limit is imposed by the human brain, which regulates the production of muscular strength to keep the body from self-destructing with over-exertion. This means that, as much as the strongest boxer in the world can throw a punch, it will always be weaker than what his actual strength allows. _

_ What young Boudicca was affected by was a rare condition that allowed her to unconsciously use one hundred percent of her muscles and reach her full potential. Ever since she was born, this power of hers was called **Blessing of Andraste** , and it was decided to keep it a secret from other tribes to not disrupt the precarious orders the Iceni lived in. _

_ Boudicca couldn’t know what was happening to her, but she guessed what the best solution was: she started training intensively from a young age to strengthen her tendons and increase the density of her bones, so she could withstand the full usage of her muscles. This way, she could boast phenomenal strength, which, along with the study of traditions, history, and good manners, made her one of the most respected and well-known women in England.  _

So the strongest punch Boudicca could throw collided with Hel’s face. The shock wave lifted the dust and the debris from the ground, giving the impression that an earthquake had just struck the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen…!” the announcers gulped, caught off guard. “Boudicca took the field and attacked Hel! Seems there are all the necessary requirements for a match…”

As they discussed, not knowing what to do, a message from a superior got to Adramelech’s ear: “O-Oh! Yeah, sure!”

And grabbing the microphone, he yelled: “According to the three organizer gods, the eighth bout can be considered to have started!”

St. Peter understood he had to seize the occasion, so he helped out his colleague: “On the gods’ side, we have the goddess of the afterlife! The Queen of Damned Souls… HEL!”

“And on mankind’s side… the Queen of the Iceni, the leader who united the English tribes under her vessel! Adored for her strength and charm… BOUDICCA!”

Higher up, on Gaea’s tribune, a freezing tension lingered.

Merlin’s grin widened in the dark.

“Let the eighth bout of the Ragnarok… begin!”

Meanwhile, in the arena, Fenrir the Wolf assaulted the one who’d attacked his sister. It didn’t matter that he was blind, because with his uncovered fangs and his homicidal fury he emanated an aura of immense danger.

However, a hand was raised to stop him.

“It’s no big deal, Fenrir.” Hel’s voice, perfectly natural, reached him in time.

The goddess’s face showed no imperfections or serious wounds after Boudicca’s punch. Just some blood that came from her nose and stained her lips.

“It was all a scene! You barely managed to burst a blood vessel…” she grinned at her opponent, taking out the rage that grew in her chest through all the irony she could use.

The redhead widened her eyes in surprise, then frowned and clenched her teeth in anger. The provocation had been successful.

“Incredible!” the announcers exclaimed. “Despite that blow that made the air vibrate, Hel is unharmed!”

While the cheers from both men and gods went wild, the goddess of death took a moment to think clearly:

-Although she can’t hurt me, if Fenrir intervened in the condition he’s in now, he’d be killed with a single hit.- And she thoughtfully looked at her brother. He didn’t need words, or a beckon: the empathy that bound them was enough to make him understand how worried she was.

So the Ragnarok Wolf, his ears low and his tail between his legs, headed to the gods’ portal to leave the battlefield.

“I wouldn’t have hit him anyway, don’t worry!” Boudicca growled in between her clenched teeth, stepping towards her opponent with her head high and an expression that made it clear how much effort it was taking her to refrain from assailing her.

“You dumb human… you shouldn’t dare raise a finger on us superior beings.”

“Oh yeah? But you can cheat all you want when mankind’s life is at stake?” Guy Fawkes’s hat, or what was left of him, was being dragged by the wind.

“Us?! Cheat?!” Hel’s eyes still remembered the tears she’d shed for Quetzalcoatl’s life, taken away so easily because of his naiveté and benevolence. “Even if you had a loyal and benevolent god in front of you, you’d still rebel for the sake of asserting your dominance over something else! You’re a breed of hungry and greedy consumers who destroy all good things, both beneath and above the sky!”

Something cracked inside Boudicca. It was an unstoppable impulse to end the suffering caused by such tyrannical selfishness.

“I’m fed up hearing you speak!” And she threw another punch, so close it was impossible to dodge it or predict it. The hit landed, releasing a boom in the air, similar to a snap. It was the sound of broken bones and crushed flesh.

“Wh-What…?!” But it wasn’t Hel who’d been hit: this was what the redhead saw, although it seemed impossible.

Her fist was embedded in the face of someone completely different, a man with normal clothes. The corpse - that’s what the punch had turned him into - dropped on the ground. 

Shortly after he started falling apart into small fragments that disappeared in the sky.

“You killed him…” A voice echoed in the whole arena and into the spectators’ minds.

“...and like all the human souls here in the Ragnarok… it simply vanished. Unlike us, living deities, you’re nothing but souls that have been granted a physical body.”

Beneath Hel’s omnipresent voice Boudicca started breaking cold sweats and she took a hold of what was happening. The words that were spoken after that gave her the coup de grace and made her worries real:

“And as souls, they’re all under my control!”

From the top of Gaea’s tribune, Odin widened his only eye, flinching as he’d never done before: “Is this… the reason why she’s here?”

His mere words were enough to make a cold shiver go down everybody’s spines, although some didn’t grasp their meaning.

There was no time for an answer, because the crowd was in turmoil beneath them on the grandstands.

“What’s going on?! S-Stop!” the announcers said in vain, unable to do anything else.

Under Boudicca’s incredulous eyes, the sun was eclipsed by a mass of bodies.

“Y-You can’t actually be doing this…”

Humans from every era, whose existence was the prize she was fighting for: a wave of these hopeful human beings came from the tribunes and tumbled down on the battlefield like an avalanche. There was no life in their eyes, just the powerlessness of a puppet.

And the puppeteer, Hel, was using their souls to attack mankind’s vanguard, taking advantage of the lack of a barrier that divided the audience from the arena.

As Odin had realized, it was all part of a plan, perfectly thought-out and executed. It all started with Charlotte’s provocation to the gods when she killed Quetzalcoatl on orders from Merlin. Then, as ordered by the wizard, Guy Fawkes had used his most powerful attack to destroy the dome on the arena.

As soon as she realized she was just a pawn in the game between Gaea, Merlin, and the human race, she felt like a puppet. She was no different from those human souls, or Hel, or Fenrir.

While she was being overwhelmed by the mass of human bodies, her thoughts went to everyone who’d fought at the cost of their lives to reach a noble goal. She closed her eyes.

“AS IF I COULD GIVE UP NOW!” Every single fiber of her body lit up as if her cells were made out of pure fire, making her suddenly shine.

In a time span too short to be possible, instead of dodging that attack that was about to overwhelm her she chose to charge at it at full speed. After some heavy steps that cracked the ground, she jumped and then drew her legs to her chest. The collision with that wave of falling bodies was inevitable.

“Now that I know the truth…” Kicking her legs in a mighty dropkick, at the speed of about forty miles per hour, the Queen of the Iceni hit her human obstacles and flung them away as if they’d been hit by a cannonball. 

“...I’ll stop at nothing!”

She landed on the grandstands, cracking the stone. The shock wave sent away all the humans around her. Then, pointing a finger towards the tribune Gaea and Merlin were watching her from, her face turned into a mask of wrath.

“I’m coming for you, you bastards! I won’t let you play us humans!”

The two divine beings felt themselves being invested by a wave of violence so powerful it couldn’t be ignored. Next to the wizard, the armour named Arthur crossed his arms, waiting.

“What a woman…” a voice giggled, belonging to someone who’d just entered the room. He was a god too, although he wasn’t part of that clique.

“Even though she kind of looks like a beast… she reminds me of an old friend of mine.” 

_ “BUT I CANNOT ACCEPT THAT THE GODS PLAY WITH HUMANS AS THEY PLEASE!” _

“Enkidu.” Prometheus pronounced that name with the utmost respect, and then Gilgamesh smugly smiled, challenging the two orchestrators.

“I think you got it by now, but… gods, humans… it makes no difference: no one likes being played!”

Gaea and Merlin were unfazed, too stoic in front of all the threats they’d received.

“You’re not going anywhere…”

Boudicca’s goal was undoubtedly to reach that tribune up above, without hurting any humans. She’d just knock them off, dosing her strength like she’d done with the one she’d just attacked, because she didn’t want to kill innocent people.

But, as much as her desire was strong, she couldn’t move.

Not understanding why, she looked down, and she noticed that the hand she didn’t lift, along with her feet, were trapped by a heavy layer of ice. Especially on her lower limbs, that thick veil had spread like roots on the ground, pinning her down.

Her left hand was unusable: although she knew she could break the ice by simply clenching her fist, that area of her body was unresponsive. It was as if it was partially paralyzed, or worse, dead.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Boudicca has been immobilized!” Adramelech belted, followed by St. Peter.

“And now Hel… or better, some humans are attacking her!”

As the saint had pointed out, other human souls controlled by the Queen of the Dead had circled the warrior. Surrounded by a hundred puppets about to jump her, she looked like a prey cornered by a pack of feral animals.

To Hel’s eyes, hidden on a tribune where her opponent couldn’t see her, that would be the most fitting end for mankind: after two consecutive victories for the gods, there would be no hope to ever catch up.

It was all going according to plan.

“ **Sephirot: Tiferet, Beauty**!”

That yell, on the contrary, wasn’t part of the goddess of death’s machinations. She caught her off guard, so much that she couldn’t see what was happening.

She suddenly felt an immense heat coming from the spot where the woman was, and then a blinding light made her unable to perceive the space around her. It was as if all of creation was condensing around that single bright dot Boudicca had turned into, molding, creating, or evoking something.

All the humans that were near that area were hurled away. Gravity didn’t help them as they were launched so high they disappeared from everyone’s sight.

When they landed, senseless, they were caught mid-air by the same wooden structure that had hit them. Boudicca lowered her right arm and made the ground quake under the weight of her new Weapon. 

The match had just begun.

“ **Cart of Andraste!** ”


	31. Curse Of The Womb

_**Chapter 31: Curse of The Womb** _

_A cart is a means of transport._

_ Therefore, it can’t be lifted with a single hand. Therefore, it can’t be used to crush or hit. Therefore, it’s not a weapon. _

_ However, the way Boudicca made that enormous chariot rotate around her body, as if she was throwing a piece of cloth from hand to hand, in front of her chest or behind her back, proved that statement wrong. _

_ The Queen of the Iceni was creating a puddle of sweat right under her boots, now still like the rest of her legs. Motionless from the waist down, she kept restlessly twirling her arms. That would’ve been impossible without her superhuman strength, but it wasn’t easy for her either. _

_ -But…- she was thinking -...this is the Weapon that Merlin guy thinks is fit for me. If this is my fate, then I’ll do my best to master it!- _

_ At that moment a person entered the room and winced with surprise. _

_ “Oi, Vlad!” Boudicca greeted him, without pausing. As the other fighter wasn’t answering, she grew suspicious. _

_ Vlad III, called Ţepeş, was at the door, looking away from her and covering his face with a hand. He was muttering in between clenched teeth, and the Queen could swear even his cadaveric skin had gone red for a moment. _

_ She looked down, and understood what the reason for his embarrassment was: she was shirtless, showing her muscles and also something else. _

_ “Oooh, come on! Don’t be an old pervert!” she mocked him, giggling like a mischievous kid. _

_ A shirt was hurled at her face, followed by a grunt: “If you don’t let me train you, it’s your loss! And I’m also a thousand years younger than you!” _

_ “Then you’re just a little kid!” She complied, finally putting down the cart and wearing the sports top. Just then the voivoda looked at her, or better, looked deep into her soul. _

_ “Was it necessary to make me dress up, if you’re still going to undress me with your eyes?” _

_ Not responding directly to the joke, he said: “You’ve improved.” _

_ “Thanks to you. So, are you still sure you don’t want to spar with me?” _

_ “You know very well if we used our Weapons, my Absolute Pierce would instantly destroy your cart. Our Sephirots are not made to be put against each other: you have to save the Cart of Andraste for your opponent.” _

_ As usual, the voivoda spoke seriously, firmly, as if no feelings touched him. But Boudicca had seen him fight in the arena: he’d cried, suffered, and his heart had burst into a scream of hope and victory that had shaped not only her, but all of mankind. _

_ A person like him was the perfect trainer to teach her how to fight, even with a nonconventional weapon like hers. _

_ “You know that…” that wasn’t all: “I didn’t ask for your help just to master my Weapon.” _

_ When their eyes met, they twinkled in the dark. _

_ “I need your help to tame the demons that haunt me!” _

Present Boudicca’s eyes, however, shone with a completely different light: it was like that of a star and - Hel noticed - she was looking directly at her.

“I noticed what you did to me, with that ice.” The woman lifted her free hand, which was frozen until shortly before. Now it had been freed, just like her legs.

She clenched it in a fist, and when she opened it, something small and white dissolved. It was tiny pale worms that let out cries of pain like wailing damned souls.

“These things were on you when I attacked you directly” she said, referring to the punch she’d thrown at her face with the same hand that had been frozen.

“And also on those souls you sent for me.” She hinted at the bodies she’d hit with her drop kick. “But they weren’t on the soul you swapped places with to get away from me, chosen randomly from the grandstands.”

And now she glanced at the hand she’d used to hit that innocent man, which was now unharmed and wielding the Cart of Andraste.

“Obviously you couldn’t place your worms on him, but you did with the bodies that were here earlier!”

She’d landed just where that crowd of puppets had come from and by looking down she could see there were some bloodstains on the floor. That was the undeniable proof that Hel, who still had a nosebleed, had been there.

“I’ll just have to avoid touching the bodies you came in contact with in order not to be frozen again!” the Queen of the Iceni stated, then lifting the cart and leaning it against her shoulder as if it were a bat.

The Queen of the Dead, although she was far away from her opponent, felt the danger on her skin like a hot breath. It was a predator with an open maw, ready to snap it shut on her throat.

-She already realized I can only use my **Éljúðnir’s Parasites** by implanting them by hand into targets that can infect her… and from now on, she’ll hold them off with that cart.-

A drop of cold sweat rolled down her temple, and she hated her own body for expressing so clearly the distress she’d fallen into.

-Keep your calm, damn it!- she told herself, using her hatred to overcome every other emotion or sensation. She clenched her teeth, dug her fingernails in her palm, and puffing her chest, proud like a queen, she quit trembling.

Her eyes threw icy glimmers. 

-But she didn’t understand yet that… that’s not the real danger of the parasites.-

Boudicca dashed forward, not hesitating when a wall of human bodies raised from the grandstands to stop her. First she cut the air horizontally with her Weapon, covering a big enough surface to wipe out every nearby obstacle, then she held it with both hands like a shield.

The humans amassed on the wood and were rejected like waves that crashed against the cliffs. What happened when they touched the cart was a lot more interesting, though: their bodies were overwhelmed by the same light that surrounded the Weapon, and they suddenly lost consciousness without being wounded.

Why is a cart an obsolete military item? Because of its inadequacy to travel over any type of terrain, its low maneuverability, and its limitation to horizontal movement. 

However, if it is wielded with two hands and brandished like any other weapon, it becomes an unexpected revolution in the combat system: heavy, broad enough to cover large surfaces, unstoppable as if every single movement was drawn by the fastest horses in the world. Undoubtedly, when it was wielded by Boudicca, it became a gigantic extension of her limbs.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t a weapon made to kill humans, and she knew it: the powers of the Sephirots were made to harm and kill gods exclusively.

In the meantime, the deities watched the battle rage on the grandstands on the other side of the arena. The mere sight of all those bodies being hurled everywhere by flashes of light was enough to petrify them with awe.

“This is absurd…” Jormungandr hissed, worrying for his nephews’ fate and holding them tight.

“Nah” Loki, his father, blurted out: “It’s just the end of the world.”

As much as the humans tried to flee in every direction, terrified by their vanguard’s destructive wrath, they couldn’t escape Hel’s control: suddenly their scared yells stopped, their eyes became hollow, and they were forced to join that army of puppets.

Boudicca’s heart cried for all the suffering her match was causing, but she knew it wasn’t her fault. She just needed to stop the puppeteer, and there would have been no more pain.

But at one point she started slowing down. Her movements grew more unpredictable, and moving became harder and harder.

She looked at her legs, then her right hand. They were blue, the colour of death.

Just like earlier, they didn’t respond to her commands, they were moved only by the adjacent muscles. They were like animated corpses, and as they couldn’t clench, the effort was starting to destroy them. The flesh was tearing, she felt her bones break, but no blood came out.

No coagulation. No heat. No vitals.

Boudicca’s body temperature wouldn’t raise, not even with all the movement she’d done in battle. And what was even more concerning was that her own frozen blood was running through her veins, spreading that disease to the whole body.

-But… if this is the parasites’ true effect…?!- The Queen quickly turned around to look at all the opponents she’d fended off. With horror she saw they’d turned into ice slates, so thick their bodies couldn’t be seen anymore.

-If they don’t manage to infect me, and they fall unconscious… they’re frozen!- 

She immediately felt guilty for having condemned those humans to a far worse end than she’d imagined. The power from her Sephirot wasn’t enough to cure her, or anyone else, from Hel’s magic.

“You’re a monster!” she yelled, and stopped attacking.

That fiery scream echoed throughout the arena and paralyzed the gods.

Boudicca didn’t waver nor move, not even when Hel’s puppets assaulted her, biting her and infecting her with all the icy parasites they had. Her eyes were shut, but her face contrite with rage was enough to convey just how much her heart was screaming.

“What is she doing?!” the announcers wondered, awestruck: “Boudicca is letting herself be hit?!”

Even Hel was watching her, and then noticed a terrible detail: there were only a few puppets around her to defend her and hide her, but the rest of the grandstands had been evacuated.

That meant she was in shortage of souls to control, and on the empty tribunes she was easy to spot now. She couldn’t even swap places with another soul, because they were all around Boudicca.

-Without me noticing, she decimated my reserves… and now I can’t defend myself!-

That was when Boudicca attacked.

Grabbing her cart with both hands, she made it spin around her to create a tornado that knocked off everyone who surrounded her. The whirlwind didn’t stop though, it continued to accumulate kinetic energy.

Hel was completely panicking: she didn’t know how to react, nor how to avoid the hit that was about to reach her.

-Calm down Hel! Calm down!- But even in her darkest hour, she was able to keep her mind as cool as the deepest depths of the arctic ocean.

Her siblings and her father would have been disappointed in her if she hadn't been able to come up with a perfect plan, worthy of the line of tricksters she came from. And she firmly believed in her slyness: the powerful, who ignored the danger and didn’t know what it meant to get up from the mud, would never understand her, and that was why she would always be one step ahead of them.

As she expected, Boudicca proceeded to throw the cart at the speed of a meteor.

“ **ANDRASTES STEORRA**!”

What she didn’t expect was that she wasn’t the target.

Her convictions crumbled when she saw the cart fly in a straight line above the battlefield. She couldn’t have imagined that it wasn’t her Boudicca was aiming at.

“The attack is aimed at the gods’ tribunes!” St. Peter and Adramelech belted out, and that was the same thought that crossed the Queen of the Dead’s mind. Just like the cart was crossing the arena, crashing directly against…

-NO!!-

Her brother, Fenrir’s children, and Loki were overwhelmed by that intense light, the last thing their eyes saw before an impact so strong it made the whole Valhalla Arena tremble.

The gods’ tribunes, hit by that destructive blow, crumpled like paper and then crumbled onto themselves in an explosion of smoke and debris.

Such an event couldn’t have been predicted by the organizers, who couldn’t keep their composure.

Ptah and Baal leaned over from their balcony, which was so high up it wasn’t damaged, while Gaea felt herself sink into her armchair due to shock. Merlin’s face had gone stiff, like it did every time things didn’t go according to his plans.

The chancellors tried to contain the panic that was spreading among deities, and they counted the wounded. Slowly the smoke dissipated from the rubble, or better, from the crater that was now on the grandstands.

Terrified and concerned, everyone leaned over to observe what was in the chasm. What they saw cut everyone’s breath short.

“H-Hel…”

The Queen of the Dead was there, on the ground next to the remains of the cart. Behind her, her relatives looked at her, flabbergasted, not being able to realize what had happened yet.

“Hel parried the hit aimed at the gods’ tribunes!”

St. Peter and Adramelech had to rewatch the tapes to be sure:

Shortly before the Andrastes Steorra impacted with the tribune, the goddess had thrown a human soul in front of her family and then swapped places with it to intercept the attack mid-air. This way, she didn’t have the time to put up any defenses, and the meteor of light hit her with all its might.

Now burnt up pieces fell from her black and white dress, showing her scalded skin. A wince animated her, making a fragment fall away from her golden mask, which shattered on the ground.

“Hel!” Her brother Jormungandr tried to rescue her, but she raised her hand to keep him away.

“This is… my battle” she wheezed, blood dripping down her jaw. She got up with great effort: “When I’m done… you won’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

The deities went pale seeing that strong willpower. Even Loki had lost his typical grin, and couldn’t make that wet, itching sensation go away from his eyes.

“No more fights… no more wars… no more suffering.” Finally, the Queen of Damned Souls got up, proud, looking straight in front of her. Her opponent was waiting for her, as well as the result.

“No more unfair gods!”

“You… tell me… about justice?” A faraway voice answered.

On the other side of the arena, Boudicca was shivering with rage.

“If even humans don’t know true justice, what do you gods know about it?!”

_ After the Roman Empire had conquered the British isles, there had been a lot of rebellions on behalf of the tribes. For the first time in centuries, they’d joined forces against a common enemy who, from overseas, threatened their lives and their religion. _

_ It’s useless to say that, because of the military superiority of the empire that was slowly conquering the known world, the insurgences were repressed with iron and blood. After the 43 A.D. rebellion, Boudicca understood she didn’t want to see her people in that sorry state ever again. _

_ So some years later she married a man who wished for peace as much as she did. The two chieftains reigned undisturbed, telling their people they had nothing to fear. _

_ Sometime later, at night, as the sky roared with rain and thunderbolts, a handful of soldiers lurked in the shadows, their intentions not so peaceful. _

_ “Are you sure it’s here?” one of them asked, hinting to the impervious place they were at: on top of a hill, where a lonely hut challenged the lightning bolts that fell not too far away. _

_ “Sure! She came here to give birth for the second time… it’s like they say: although she’s as strong as a goddess, in childbirth she’s as weak as any other woman.” _

_ “They predicted this child is going to be female, too. She can’t go on like this! If she can’t give Prasutagus a male heir, the Romans will break their pact of alliance!” _

_ In the middle of the night, those men with unsheathed swords were ready to commit the worst crime because they feared for their lives. _

_ But when something that shouldn’t have been there moved behind their backs, they feared even more. They barely turned around to see the tremendous figure lit up by lightning: her clothes drenched, she had untamed red hair that didn’t conceal her expression of unfathomable wrath. _

_ As their screams were muffled by the thunders, the soldiers were defeated by a lone woman, unarmed, but not weaker than the strongest man they’d ever meet on Earth. _

_ Then that same figure entered the hut and was welcomed by a firm but apprehensive glance from a gigantic and threatening man. _

_ “Boudicca…” he reprimanded her, but the woman answered with a sigh, before laying down on the rug of animal hides. _

_ “Prasutagus” she said after a long silence, with a voice that couldn’t have belonged to the fiery beast from earlier. She had a dreamy voice, lost in an imaginary world only she could see: “What do you think our daughter will want to do when she grows up? Will she love her sister? Will we one day argue until we cry and then make up with even more love in our hearts?” _

_ Her husband crossed his arms, then glanced at the baby, with red and untamed hair, who’d been sleeping for a while. _

_ “Which child doesn’t argue with their parents at least once? Of course, we’ll fight, especially if she inherits your strong character. She’ll surely fight with her sister too, but she’ll love her. And… she’ll be able to do whatever she wants, because she’s going to be the Queen.” _

_ The magic disappeared from Boudicca’s eyes: “You know the Romans will never accept their allies be ruled by a female chieftain. Of course, this also applies to your heirs.” _

_ Prasutagus smiles sadly, then laid down, his head next to his wife’s. _

_ “Our daughters won’t be old enough to marry when I die. So, unless you want to remarry…” _

_ “Shut up, you idiot!” The redhead covered her eyes with her arm. _

_ “Here. When did you ever stop at anything, or anyone? Remember when we were young and I used to mock you because I thought it was impossible for a woman to be as strong as you are? It took me weeks to recover after those blows you knocked me off with…” _

_ In between tears, they started laughing. _

_ “Please, don’t die.” _

_ “I can’t go against the gods’ will.” _

_ That night, as the sky and two humans cried, the last heir of the tribe was born. _

_ Prasutagus death, caused by an incurable disease, left Boudicca as the only head of the Iceni tribe. However, ever since she’d given birth to only two girls, people started believing the Blessing of Andraste was actually a curse in disguise. _

_ In her determination, the Queen was casting a dangerous shadow on the tribe. The threat came when the Romans asked for what they couldn’t have. _

_ That day huts and harvests were burnt, while soldiers and barded horses ran around screaming that that land wouldn’t be ruled by barbarians anymore. _

_ Her people would be spared, because the empire needed workers, But at what cost. _

_ They would never be granted independence, because all their land would be the property of a Roman lord assigned to control their tribe. _

_ Boudicca clenched her teeth. Her husband wouldn’t have tolerated it if the frail relationship between them and the Romans broke. _

_ This is why she didn’t bat an eye when, in the public square, she was whipped naked. What could that ever mean to her? The whip didn’t hurt her body, nor her pride. _

_ But she couldn’t explain to herself why she didn’t move a finger when she saw her daughters, now two beautiful women, be brutalized as they begged for pity and called for help. _

_ No, she couldn’t explain that, and she couldn’t look them in the eye anymore. _

_ She loved her family, and that was all she swore to protect with the strength she’d been granted at birth. But, at that moment so dark it looked like hell on Earth, her blessing was totally useless. _

_ And it was useless to even think of getting up, or rebelling. _

_ Thousands of tribes in Britain, united to fend off the invaders. Useless. _

_ Conquered outposts, with countless victims to show the enemy they’d never, ever spare them. Useless. _

_ Superiority in numbers and knowledge of the territory? Useless. _

_ Neither the gods nor her strength had been any help. That was how, drenched with her own blood, on a destroyed cart, she looked up at the storming sky and thought that the love of her life would have never wanted any of that from her. _

_ She’d just lost a useless battle, as useless as her life had been until then. _

For that reason, now that the chance to conquer the most important victory of her life was right before her eyes, Boudicca would never let it slip.

“The only justice you’ll have to respect now… is MINE! This is my judgement!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!   
> I’m very sorry for the delay, but lately between university and the development of a video game, I find myself very busy. Luckily, tomorrow I will update the end of this fight, and you won’t have to wait long before the rest of the story. We’re in the final stages!  
> If you enjoy the story so far, consider join the official Discord server: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7


	32. True Beauty (Final)

**Chapter 32: True Beauty (Final)**

With no limit nor hesitation, the two enemy queens looked at each other from afar, each on one side of the grandstands.

Until then the match had taken place outside the usual arena, making it doubtlessly unordinary and beyond all expectations.

Even Merlin and Gaea, who’d predicted Hel’s power would bring chaos and destruction, couldn’t have imagined Boudicca would have dared to directly attack the gods’ tribunes. Almost half of the arena had collapsed with that last hit, putting the gods’ safety at risk.

It wouldn’t have been wrong to suspend that bout, however the organizers Baal and Ptah couldn’t utter a word, too tense in anticipation for the final result.

The Queen of the Iceni had sacrificed her Weapon, the Cart of Andraste, with her hit; nonetheless she wasn’t empty-handed. Instead, with her hands she wielded the chariot’s wheels, which covered her arms up to the shoulders. They looked like shields, but they could still harm deities.

Hel, on the contrary, had been forced to get away from her only defense and offense, the mortal souls she could harvest her icy parasites into. Think back to her strategy, she wondered how her opponent could still be alive: Éljúðnir’s Parasites were able to make their victims’ blood so cold it solidified into thick clots that did not coagulate, but froze all the nearby blood vessels and turned the host into an ice block from the inside.

She looked at Boudicca and she noticed several holes on her body liquid blood was flowing out of. It seemed she wounded herself specifically to get rid of the parasites, without which her body had been able to gradually warm up.

“You’re crazy… completely out of your mind” the goddess hissed, cracking her neck with truculent eyes.

The other grinned challengingly.

“Didn’t you wonder why you didn’t meet your family among all those human souls earlier?”

That simple question was enough to make the redhead’s smile disappear, making her flinch. Hel noticed and, happy to have caused such a reaction, continued:

“Oh, I know you looked for them: you would’ve never wanted them to be in your way or be harmed. But you needn’t have worried… because I took care of them: I erased them! Now they don’t exist anymore, and they didn’t get the right to be revived for the Ragnarok!”

The goddess’s split face contorted in a grotesque grimace, the parody of the macabre smile from theatre masks.

She knew she’d just landed a harsh psychological hit on her opponent, taking away from her the only thing she wasn’t able to defend while she was still alive. Making research on your enemy and finding their weaknesses was a strategy she couldn’t not use, as she was favoured by one of the organizers. 

“Really?” Boudicca answered provocatively. When she raised her head, she welcomed her with a mocking expression she would’ve never expected.

“Well, from what I saw earlier when you brought back your brother’s soul, you don’t seem to have issues with such cases!”

“What… do you mean?”

A glimpse of madness shone in the redhead’s eyes: “I mean that, on the verge of death, I’ll force you with the most atrocious tortures to do the same with my family. You’ll give them back to me! One by one!”

Without waiting any longer, they jumped on each other, covering the distance that separated them and meeting exactly above the centre of the arena.

Since she’d moved quicker due to her superhuman athleticism, Boudicca lifted both wheels to crash them on her opponent. The impact caught her mid-air and sent her down on the battlefield, in a groove she carved with her body.

Hel felt the hit reverberate in her bones, cutting her breath short and isolating her from all her senses. Her brain blacked out for a brief moment, then she was able to feel all the agony that had been inflicted on her body.

She vomited blood, and her breath was barely a rattle: -It must be her thirst for revenge that makes her so strong… shit! I shouldn’t have taunted her! Now that she can use all her strength and hurt me, I stand no chance against her in close combat! Another attack like this and I’m dead…-

Boudicca didn’t intend on giving her a break. Falling from the sky like a fury, the spun and created a bright tornado.

-No!- Hel made a human soul, evoked just in time, jump between her and the hit. It cushioned the impact and was thrown onto her, unharmed. Like all the other bodies hit by the Sephirot Hod, it shone with the same light as the cart.

-I can’t swap places with the souls anymore if they are imbued with this light…- She thought of the few puppets she could dispose of. They were still lined up on one area of the grandstands, but because these were deserted now, they very much caught the eye.

-If I swapped places with them to get away, I’d be spotted right away… and chased.-

“Even if you keep on parrying my hits with human souls, you’re going to run out of them at some point.” As if she could read her mind, Boudicca mentioned her greatest weakness.

She was slowly stepping towards her, dragging the wheels on the ground. “And whatever dirty trick you have in mind, it can’t be done without them. So I’ll just have to keep an eye on them to understand when you want to use them.”

Feeling looked down on aroused a sensation in the Queen of the Dead she thought was long buried. Now that the phantom of powerlessness and shame had been revived in her, she could never let someone who spoke to her that way get away with it.

“You… are forgetting…!” she growled, getting up, her claws like those of a hawk. Puffs of frost were coming out of her nails.

“...a slight contact with my parasites was enough to freeze you! If I touched you for just a bit longer, you’d shatter!”

The contestants’ attention shifted to each other’s arms, as if they were in a boxing match. They both had weapons that could kill the other in a single hit: the danger was real, so intense it made chilling shivers go down their spines.

They attacked in unison.

Hits so quick they were barely detectable flew in the air, light and unstoppable, but they only hit their target’s afterimage. Boudicca and Hel were able to disappear in an instant, then spot the enemy and launch a strike with the sole purpose of killing.

The booms echoed pauselessly.

Even the presenters were baffled, as the whole divine audience was cramped on the grandstands aching to see a detail that could make them guess the result.

Suddenly, a blow from Hel penetrated Boudicca’s guard so deep it made her lose her balance as she dodged. Taking advantage of the fact that her opponent’s limbs took a while to be drawn back, she snapped her wheels shut on them like they were a jaw.

The trap crushed Hel’s arms, breaking her bones and angling them unnaturally. Because of the concentration and all the tension she’d piled up, which peaked after she’d received such a hit, a visceral howl of pain was ripped from her.

Blood drops flew in the air.

-Now! The moment I was waiting for!-

Inside those drops, as well as in each and every part of the Queen of the Dead’s body, were the white parasites. The attack she’d planned on her last legs fell onto Boudicca.

Or, exactly like before, it fell onto her afterimage and landed on nothing. Boudicca, who’d decided to keep her guard up around a tricky enemy like Hel, had already got away with a sprint.

Getting away in a match you seem to be winning seems illogical. This doubt hit Hel, who was already half knocked out from the damage she’d just received.

The thing her opponent was saving for her was revealed:

“ **Andrastes Steorra**!”

Out of the blue, hidden by an evasive action, Boudicca’s mightiest attack was unleashed. This time she did not use the Cart of Andraste, but one wheel. This way the meteor was smaller and lighter, and incredibly faster.

-Although it looks weaker…!- The goddess trembled at the mere thought of being hit by that attack.

The short distance, along with the wounds she had, made it impossible for her to move a single muscle to avoid it.

“I have no choice!” she yelled, using the ace up her sleeve when her opponent couldn’t take advantage of it.

She summed all her puppets in front of her, building up a shield made of a bunch of human bodies.

The Andrastes Steorra impacted.

“L-Ladies and gentlemen…” When it was possible to see again, Adramelech and St. Peter communicated with great shock what nobody would’ve expected.

At the same time, Hel widened her eyes and fell on her knees.

“Hel has been hit!” The scream filled the stadium, but no one cheered.

The goddess of the dead looked at her right side and found it had partially evaporated. Even part of her face and limbs, on the same side, were beginning to disperse in tiny fragments like butterflies.

The shock was already taking control of her sanity when she noticed a gigantic groove in the ground was all that was left of half of her barrier of souls. She turned around, seeing all the knocked off bodies and, where the groove ended, embedded into the wall, the wheel that was thrown at her.

-Because the wheel was smaller… it was more aerodynamic than the cart… and since it was also lighter, Boudicca could imprint more strength into it.- Her thoughts became a barren land where a sad, dead wind blew, caressing the void.

Alone, on the ground, and close to defeat.

Her opponent’s presence, who now appeared as looming and inhuman, towered over her:

“Get up! I promised you’d give me back my family, and then you could die!” 

Boudicca was face to face with the goddess’s last defense. Powerless, she was so crumpled over herself she couldn’t even see her.

Jormungandr, Hati, Skǫll, and Loki were as tense as violin chords. From afar, although he hadn’t uttered anything for a while, even Fenrir looked worried for his sister.

No one dared to breathe. No sound could be heard in the Valhalla Arena for a long time.

Until: “Ehe…ehehe!”

As gurgling as a brook and as croaking as a raven, that sound erupted from Hel’s throat:

“EheheHEHEHEHEHEEEH!”

Madness. Pain. Her mind was blurred, just like her vision, because of the blood that got into her eyes. Her other senses had gone numb, and her muscles didn’t respond properly anymore.

But she was laughing.

“Eheheheh…” she rattled, getting up from the ground in an unseemly pose. “Thanks for reminding me… your weak spot!”

Hel’s eyes shimmered wickedly, but Boudicca could look at her only for a short time, because something else happened. Something that caught her completely off guard and made her flinch.

Her eyes widened, as if to make sure she was really looking at what she thought it was.

“You surely can’t hit… your family!” Hel went on laughing, widening her arms to show her how all the souls in front of her had taken the appearance of Prasutagus and Boudicca’s two daughters.

She laughed and laughed, while Boudicca only managed to shiver convulsively.

She vainly tried to speak, and when she finally managed to… she laughed as well.

“Okay, fine, you win!” An arrogant smile decorated the queen’s face, stained with blood and sweat. She didn’t want to give up just yet. 

After baffling Hel, she continued:

“You’re right. I could never hit my daughters, or my husband… not after all I’ve done to them. I know it’s not actually them, but my guilt holds me back nonetheless. Yeah…”

She lifted her free hand, clenched in a fist.

“That’s why I’ll hit _you_ , who I swore to destroy!”

And she yanked something invisible, almost non-existent.

No. Hel felt the air move around her. She felt the weight of an object moving very fast, but when she sensed the danger it was too late.

“You really thought I’d give up one of my wheels just because I had another one?!”

The wheel from the Cart of Andraste, embedded in the wall behind Hel’s back, crashed with unstoppable force against her back. The goddess, as she was being imbued with light, could barely moan in pain, between her teeth that cracked and bled:

“H-How?!”

Boudicca was more than happy to answer, showing her free fist in front of her.

“When, during the previous bout, the dome around the arena shattered, Guy Fawkes’s farewell explosion scattered around something very important… for your brother!”

Gleipnir. The indestructible thread, even with the greatest explosion gods and humans had ever seen, didn’t snap. It had scattered all around the arena, like a light ribbon dragged away by the wind.

Now that thread connected Boudicca’s hand with the wheel no one had paid attention to anymore, much less her opponent.

-This is what I consider… a blessing- the woman thought, crying as she made Guy Fawkes’s sacrifice not useless.

-Although I won’t be able to see my family anymore, it’s a small price to pay… for a world made of just men!-

“It’s over, Hel! You’ll pay the consequences of your actions!”

Hel’s body lit up, becoming part of the Sephirot’s light.

But she didn’t disappear at all.

“Wha-?!” Boudicca tried to say, but a hand stuck to her face, shushing her. It came from behind her, and it belonged to a human soul, a puppet.

And that puppet was now going back to its actual appearance: it was Hel, the Queen of Damned Souls, daughter of the Trickster God.

The one who was hit by the wheel now looked like one of Boudicca’s daughters, unharmed. The other doubles took advantage of the vanguard’s shock to snap the other wheel out of her hand, so she was completely powerless in Hel’s clutches.

“Both you and I knew you would never hurt your family… That was the point! By not hitting them with your Sephirot, you didn’t make them immune to my powers: only thanks to you I could swap places and then change both the soul’s appearance and mine. But to you, it looked like I didn’t move an inch, as you launched your final attack on me!”

Up to that moment, after purposefully making Boudicca focus on her attacks based on direct contact and on her ability to summon souls, Hel had managed to remove from her opponent’s mind the idea she could still swap places with the souls under her control.

“There is no blessing: neither the gods, nor fate can be so kind.”

None of these words, although they were whispered in her ear, reached the redhead. Gripped by Hel’s arms, she was being frozen.

All she saw was ice. All she felt was cold.

Even the memories of the love she’d felt, the love she’d received, the hope that had strengthened her, quickly disappeared from her heart. Like snowflakes that melt on the ground.

“ **Wild Hunt** …”

Even the ice statue she’d been turned in shattered upon minimum pressure. 

“Ladies and gentlemen! The eighth bout, so troubled and full of plot twists… END WITH THE GODS’ VICTORY!”

A roar came from the gods’ tribunes, along with cusses for the human that had dared attempt to put their lives at risk, but who now had had the end she deserved.

Jormungandr, Hati, and Skǫll cried tears of relief, happy to know that not only Fenrir, but also Hel was alive and victorious after all their angst. Loki smiled delightedly, then looked up at the sky.

“Boudicca…” Charlotte Corday had hidden her face against Dante’s chest, sobbing profusely as the poet caressed her back. The man’s eyes were grieved and bitter.

Meanwhile, next to them, two men couldn’t soothe the homicidal intent unleashed by their wrath: it was Masutatsu Oyama and Vlad, who’d decided that was the last trick the gods would ever play on them.

On the other side, on a tribune reserved for the divine participants, Fenrir sat silently, as he’d done for the whole bout. Now blind and deaf due to Guy Fawkes’s explosion, he looked indifferent to the results and to his sister’s victory.

“So…?” a serious voice asked him, showing an enigmatic irritation.

Sun Wukong didn’t even have to look at him: he knew his expression would be the same.

“Was it worth it?”

As he’d imagined, he received no answer.

Meanwhile, on Gaea’s tribune, the tension accumulated up to that moment was released with a collective sigh. It was as if it became possible to breathe again just then.

“You do realize that, because of your goals, you hurt innocent humans?!” Prometheus roared, keeping his distance nonetheless: as much as he wanted to move, he felt a single step forward would cost him his life.

Around Gaea, Merlin, and that unmoving armour, a distorted area was twitching. Their faces, hidden to the sight, were mysteriously reflexive.

Gaea grimly murmured: “Five for the gods, three for mankind.” She didn’t even look at Merlin as she saw him go away with a sigh.

“Not too bad. I’m sure Arthur won’t lose the next bout. Let’s go, Arthur…” The brooding wizard walked towards the door, as if it wasn’t blocked by an army of gods who wanted him dead.

“You’re grosser than a maggot” Ammit hissed, scowling at him. Phobetor did the same and then turned to the next challenger.

“And you, have you gone crazy?! Don’t you understand he only wants to bring mankind to destruction?”

The voice died in his throat, and the willpower to stop them was annihilated in all of them. Even the most powerful gods, like Zeus, Odin, and Ptah, saw their knees tremble. It was one instant, but when they stopped fearing for themselves, there was no one in front of them anymore.

“Give Arthur a decent opponent, please” Merlin ordered, dead serious, as he walked away. The noise caused by the heavy boots of the armour disappeared slowly.

The redheaded titan clawed his chest, not realizing he was doing it to check his heart was still beating properly. His pulse was racing, but for a moment he felt there was none.

“The only one who could make me feel this way…”

“Yup, it’s him.” Baal showed he knew perfectly how he was feeling and what he was thinking.

“Quite ironic: it seems that Arthur won’t be disappointed… with Uriel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!  
> That's the end of the eight bout! A bittersweet, or just bitter end, idk, I think it depends if you were fans of Hel or Boudicca.   
> What is done is done, and humanity stand on the verge of the abyss, with just two defensors... but, are they truly their hopes, their paladins, their einherjar?  
> Follow my Discord server to know when the ninth match will begin: https://discord.gg/FHNr7A7

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm Master Chopper, the author of this story! My girlfriend (the official translator from italian to english) and I hope that all of you can appreciate our work. If you came here from Reddit, let me know while you leave a review! Thanks for everything!


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